












r 


^ * nP 



y> ’S k 'U\\S 5 ' ^ \ v 'A * 

C> y * a- <Js t. 

* ’ "* sP ''" •* '*c * ’ M ° ’ v' V V 1 * 0 ' ->*"'* ,0^ V H VL’Sf "c- 

A* V .* ,VvVA V ‘ A ^ * 

(/' ^vv v rvw //Ji ° 

C 





^ 1-^ — < 

^ y 0 * * * ^ 
o v * 


* *.V ' ^ * ■ 

4 ,<r ' ^ * 

/c° s s " ** 

U * -s^ * J *f> , 

* -?r 

“’' A 

* '•v r 


v ^ AiZ 
*• > 

s 

1 X * 

< 

•si 

A^ 

h o 
% ?. 



' o 

-t 1 

A 

A 



O' 




\ 



A 


^ ^ 0 ° V - 

^o o x : \ 

A V/ <1 . 

o ^ ^ >■ 

«11 ^ »T^ ’* A V *■» 

-V#' 

^vxx^ K ///z z -- ’ 

° A ^ ° 
' x '^. . 



m t 4 




*<A 


A' 


A> A 

■& ^ 


Kt ■-> 

r > < 


. v y 0 O X ^ vO^ <* "V . ^ c S ^ A '-> 

^ v - -* ° o * c^Ntx <*•. -p ,-er v ^ -j) 


A 




✓* 

,o y ' * _ CL’ 

, % * ■» s « 5 \^ 

c ‘ V . o. v * o 


cfc. 


.* v ^ ,-o 

« Pv 

.# ^ '•<c 

// y..s s ,\ x . . * o * k ^ ^6 <* 

0 V c 0 N G « '<P 

"* JFM//Z?> + ^ J .* k , .tx 

o o x 

r^ r l~ 



■?•'/\'++ “'./'v- 1 '’*,^°’ 1 ;/ c»"«♦;*!■_ B 

o ax S'- L^v ' 'p/ ** ->^ <? 

* A K oo x ® 

f- \ s ') <'-» g> -^xr-j— * n j 

e- *.,>» ,o -o » 3n0 x ^ * 

^ 0 V . ^ . ^_ 7 // 'O \> a^ 0 A ' n 

V ,' - 

°o ^ ^ 

° <o 

* yf % 








AV 

•*> ^ <&•, -J 

> . C*-* » 

A ' 3 , y 

^ % * 11 8 « ^ 




A 


.„ .-. ' • J i •*'« '' ^/r?Pp^ . 


< ^ 















* ^ 
* 

* i 

y. $ 

n,n v 

cv s s 

^A, n ^ /❖ * 

° %■$ « 

■p, _ vvnavi-i— ^// b-yy * 

< 1 $ *<» -* >. 41 : 44—4 ~ <\y‘ ,j r 

^ * v> <"• * £ 2 pS * *y ^ „ „ 

*■ v •Mmy* °oo^ ? ff ^^p,. ^ V s . 

. A ^ \' > *Sz?mw * x° 

> Or ^ c<- yyy/ ])jm s .- ,, 

C‘ ^ * oi' & t- ' ri o 

, ^ * 3 K 0 0 <# ^ » M * 4 °' 

/* o V 




^ * $ 





17 ■; n o J \V 
'/ C> V *■ 

._ | L / / \ \„ 

rO V t 0 N c ’<*> ^ * * S S ^\ A v I B f ^O ° "' K 0 ^ 0 C° N S 

0 ’ c^Y ' * A S ^1 ° 0 ° .* V 




o aV ^ o 

y r ^ * ** ^ -.;« 

* ^o x <- */r!s.v a ^ ° 

. 0 ' c' Nt ( ’% ** v 0 ^'*« ^>, 

0 * _<r^i\ .. , y v X <s v 


\ V ' 



^ ^ Ju 

* & 

s . v 

*„ 'V -^ V 

cP ( ^V as 

CO C 

C V> X.K 

* V/ ^> * .,„ w . - 

-i <^y * S <^* a 

> 4 ° N r C x - - sS A v y « 

.Cy c 0 N c -p <*> A , 




>/ ^ or 

,. ^ * 3 -N 0 ° \V X 

C U V s ^ 

i*. S sp . r 

: ***& : 



K <t v 

’: ^ °* * 
/>. a _ * 


C,^ 

,v? ^ * 

^ V. -r y / . 

. O-. .o*^ c 0 N 0 « ’<£ 

■i o cy » ^> 5 ^ ^ >■ 

:4 

/ ^ 


A 0 ' <««M/!^ ^ 

A ^ 


V > « * ° 


<x >- A 1 * o 
> ■i.-'jYTy-j-. 1 . 































THE GREAT HOUSE 
IN THE PARK 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 

“THE HOUSE ON CHARLES STREET” 

and 

“THE HOUSE ON SMITH SQUARE” V ' 

7'3;.c«, -w > T ) Vv i Ccms****> lv £ 7 ' 3 ^\. » wvv } 



NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 

1924 



COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY 
Duffield & Company 


/ 




Printed in U. S. A. 

MAY 16 1924 ^ _ Q- 

©Cl A7 92656 

''Wo */ 


aSL ^ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Talk in a Fog. 3 

II The Strange Little Street .... 20 

III The Apartment in the Gallery ... 29 

IV The Eyes Behind the Screen ... 37 

V Different by Day-Light.46 

VI The White Fur Rug.57 

VII Gestures of the White Peacock . . 69 

VIII The Legend of St. Columbia .... 80 

IX “Les Treyze Sainctes Hystoires du Jean 

de Braq”.* , , 97 

X The Artist’s Color-Box .Ill 

XI Angels and Visitors.127 

XII Behind the Bacchante.136 

XIII The Darkness of the Crypt .... 146 

XIV The Garlanded Staircase.155 

XV Testimony to the Character of Paul 

Stern, Deceased . ..167 

XVI The Princess’s Nut.181 

XVII The Lords of Shank.197 

XVIII Seven Branches of the Olive-Tree . 208 

XIX The Legal Minuet.222 

XX Allegory of the Tree of Life .... 237 

XXI A Gilt-Handled Dagger.250 

XXII Mounting the Centaur.262 

XXIII The Bridal Dress.272 

XXIV The Mary Casket.283 

XXV The Charred Pieces.293 

XXVI The Way Out ..304 

XXVII The Face Between the Candles ... 314 
XXVIII Adventures of Six Shillings .... 329 
XXIX Six Shillings Go to a Wedding . . . 339 

XXX The King Street Spink.349 

XXXI Chinoiseries.362 

XXXII Langford’s.371 

XXXIII Dunottar Castle.382 

XXXIV Christie’s.392 

XXXV The Door in the Panelling .... 407 
XXXVI The Last Illumination.416 

























THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

























I 




> 







\ 











v’ 



















i 




( 
























. i f 
















t 



















The Great House 
in the Park 

CHAPTER I 

TALK IN A FOG 

T HE fog which blanketed the mouth of the 
Mersey, was black as the pit and startlingly 
cold. Under its canopy the ship moved slow and 
more slowly ; bells rang, voices called out of the 
dusk, and all that joyful bustle which precedes 
landing received an unexpected check. At first, 
the passengers refused to accept the omens, but 
pranced the decks cheering one another with 
hopeful interchanges, while some among them 
professed to see the Liverpool docks so near that 
real delay would be unthinkable. But, as the 
afternoon drew on toward evening, and the liner 
remained immovable in the river, the black water 
running by her sides, it was plain from the silence 
all about them and the gloom on the stewards’ 
faces that the chance to dock that night was 
drawing to a close. A few brave souls refused 
to abandon hope; they kept loudly insisting that 
the fog had lightened or that they heard the 
3 


4 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


engines of the port-officers’ launch, but after 
awhile they too succumbed to the chilly darkness 
without and retired to the lights of the saloon. 

Three or four men only remained on deck, con¬ 
tinuing to take their usual walk with cigar or 
pipe and the philosophy born of long experience. 
Chance had it that two of these found themselves 
leaning on the rail, elbow to elbow. One was an 
elderly Englishman, the other a young American. 
During the voyage each had noticed the other 
with an interest leading to an occasional inter¬ 
change, so that on this last evening they had 
already made the opening moves of an acquaint¬ 
ance. Something in the circumstances of the 
moment, the shrouding fog, the unknown land 
lying beyond, led the younger man to feel con¬ 
fidence in the responsiveness of his companion. 

“Of course it’s awfully provoking, isn’t it?” 
So he began on the obvious topic of the delay. 
“But as it’s all new to me, a day more or less 
doesn’t matter. I guess it’s different—harder— 
for you because you’re going home?” 

To the interrogatory note in this speech the 
elder man at once responded. 

“Quite so. Yes. It plays the deuce with my 
engagements. I shall have to telegraph later.” 
He paused, in his turn lightly questioning: “So 
this is your first crossing? You’ve never before 
been in England?” 

“Never in England. But—no! it’s not my 
first crossing,” the young man answered. “I was 
over in France with the rest of them.” 

“Ah, yes! With the rest of them.” And by 


TALK IN A FOG 


5 


his kindly intonation, the Englishman recalled 
that Odyssey. “Well, you’ll find much to inter¬ 
est you in the Old Country. We’re more hos¬ 
pitable often than your countrymen give us 
credit.” 

“I should say so! But that's the whole prob¬ 
lem!” The words came in a rush of perplexity 
which the speaker seemed unable to contain; and 
he halted as if puzzled and abashed. The elder 
turned his head, so real had this trouble sounded, 
and their eyes met with some intentness. The 
Englishman replied, “ah-h?” with a tranquil re¬ 
sponse, and waited, in his own mind wondering 
what the problem was. 

The deck was by this time deserted save for 
an occasional passing of sailor or steward. From 
the saloon sounds of music showed how the pas¬ 
sengers were trying to console themselves. Be¬ 
yond the narrow lighted space the night shut 
down like an iron door, and the moment held a 
certain intimacy, of which these two, each sen¬ 
sitive after his own fashion, were aware. Yet it 
appeared hard for the younger to continue, so 
his companion aided him with an urbane com¬ 
ment on the geniality of the average American 
as compared to the habit of his own countrymen. 

“You ought to have no trouble understanding 
us,” he went on, his gaze fixed on the black 
curtain before them; “and a new country is al¬ 
ways an adventure, or so it seemed to me at your 
age. 

“There’s no doubt about the adventure!” The 
American ejaculated, “it’s only-” Again, 


6 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


he paused as if helpless, and the other, beginning 
to be definitely interested, flicked away his cigar- 
ash and sought for an opening. 

“It’s a door to which the American possesses 
the key, if only he knew it. As a people, we’re 
easy-going and we love to be amused. You 
people know how to do that. Then under our 
surface gruffness we’re rather apt to be sen¬ 
timental and romantic—” 

“That’s it—romantic! That’s what I’ve been 
wondering.” The boy seemed to seize on the 
idea as a beam of light in his darkness and added 
eagerly: “Are English people impulsive too, sir, 
do you know?” 

This question surprised his hearer. “Bless 
my soul—I suppose so,” he replied. “What 
makes you ask?” Then, with a typical sim¬ 
plicity and directness, he continued; “I say—it’s 
no affair of mine to question you—you don’t 
know me, but my name is Flippin, Sir John Flip- 
pin. I’m a London barrister, a K. C., if you 
know what that is.” 

The stranger said that he thought he did and 
offered his name in return as Richard Monkton 
and his home as Philadelphia. While making 
this introduction, he surveyed his new acquaint¬ 
ance pith satisfaction in the handsome, sturdy 
type, side-whiskered and large-framed, rosy and 
active, and with an old-fashioned touch in his 
dress that Richard felt to be in keeping. Truly, 
Flippin, K. C. was just as one would have it; and 
Dickens himself could not have done better .... 

“I suppose my asking that seems funny,” he 


TALK IN A FOG 


7 


began, as they started to pace the empty deck; 
and Sir John, deciding that he meant odd, grunt¬ 
ed acquiescence. “You see, it's all been so sud¬ 
den, so strange—I've hardly known what to 
think... .As things were, I was glad to burn my 
bridges.. . .Now it’s done, Fm bothered and I 
need counsel from somebody who knows this 
world. That's the truth, sir." 

Sir John rightly determined that the boy could 
only tell his story in his own way, which would 
necessitate sweeping out certain reticences, 
and thus occupy a little time. He had already 
taken a fancy to the speaker—a fancy based on 
certain very small things, such as the turn of the 
eye and lip, the picturesque air which bespoke a 
sub-conscious link between them, and therefore 
he remained patient. 

“Quite so," he encouraged; “that's a lawyer's 
business, y'know. If there's anything you don't 
understand about our ways—I know things are 
different across the water—I'll be very glad to 
help." 

“You're awfully good," the youth said grate¬ 
fully, and thus without more ado, plunged into 
his story. He told it simply, with small self- 
consciousness, and Sir John found him even more 
engaging as they walked to and fro. In the first 
place he was good-looking in an unusual way, a 
tall fellow in his early twenties, very slim, with 
a high-bridged nose, heavy brows over clear, 
clever eyes, a spirited head and fine hands. Had 
he been more robust, he would have been exceed¬ 
ingly handsome, but earlier in the voyage, Sir 



8 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


John had read a recent illness in the boy's pal¬ 
lor and look of anxiety and strain. As the story 
progressed, however, the barrister felt that these 
were, perhaps, otherwise accounted for, and he 
kept to his steady, sympathetic attention which 
the teller found so soothing. Meanwhile, Sir 
John's unspoken comments were philosophical, 
to the effect that this strange train of events was 
far less strange than it would have been before 
the War, since when the impulses guiding human 
action were less under restraint and life's uncer¬ 
tainties far more overwhelming. Sir John Flip- 
pin was a soft-hearted old boy and the little nar¬ 
rative touched him. 

Richard Monkton's father, he explained, had 
inherited what used to be called a competency 
and the boy had been brought up quietly and 
comfortably in what is perhaps the most com¬ 
fortable city in the United States. The elder 
Monkton had never been active in his profession 
of the law and after his wife's death, years before, 
had withdrawn from practice to devote his time 
to his son, to his old-fashioned clubs, and to his 
collections of books and objets d'art. These 
were his solace in a changing world, and the son 
depicted him as a man tranquil and absorbed in 
recondite pleasures and perchance too forgetful 
of practical things. The young man went to 
school and college, and then, caught by the tide, 
to France in the Army. While still serving, the 
father suddenly died, and when young Monkton 
returned in 1919, it was to find his world in ruins. 

“Before I went, he told me we'd lost money," 


TALK IN A FOG 


9 


Richard said with an effort; for this was the hard 
part of his tale; “but at that time I think he still 
thought there’d be enough for me to finish col¬ 
lege and study painting, which was what I want¬ 
ed to do. What went wrong I still don’t quite 
know—he didn’t realize the War, I fear, and how 
values had changed. Anyway, it turned out 
there was hardly enough to take care of things 
for other people, old responsibilities, you see. 
Everything had to be sold, and the only thing left 
for me was just to turn in and work.” 

“Beastly hard luck,” Sir John said kindly, “but 
you had relatives—friends ?” 

“No near relatives, unfortunately; but of 
course Dad had lots of friends,” Richard loyally 
hastened to assure him; “only, everything was in 
such a mess, you remember the slump and the 
high prices? Well, I did odd jobs where I could 
and then an opening came in one of our 
big Trust Companies. Lots of our boys 
began that way and this was a good chance. I 
really hated that sort of job, but I had no excuse 
for declining it, you see,” he paused, a little wist¬ 
fully. 

“And now I’m coming to the queer part. 
Some weeks before that time, a letter came to me 
from London, the writer saying he was a friend 
of Dad’s though they had not met for years, and 
who wanted to know all about my poor father’s 
death. He was an Englishman, a collector of old 
books, and he referred to an illuminated Virgil, 
which he said Dad had bought from him years 
before. Of course I know all about that . Dad 
was crazy about such things. 


10 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“The name signed at the end was altogether 
strange to me; but Dad used to correspond about 
his treasures with people all over the world. I 
thought the letter a little strange with some of 
the questions it asked and so forth, but collectors 
are apt to be odd folk, so I just answered it and 
forgot about it. Two weeks ago there came 
another letter; I have it here.” 

The speaker pulled a wallet from his pocket 
and drew out an envelope. 

“Will you read it for yourself?” he asked Sir 
John; “and tell me what you think?” 

So thick the fog closed in upon them, chilly 
and soft, that the decks were darkened. Al¬ 
though the handwriting of the letter was remark¬ 
ably distinct, printed, rather than written, in a 
beautiful, even script, yet Flippin was forced to 
hold it close under the lamp that he might read in 
that shadowing blackness. He did so in a mani¬ 
fest amazement, after his first glance brought 
forth an ejaculation of “God bless my soul!” and 
a side-look at Dick which showed he had reasons 
for this astonishment of which the young man 
was ignorant. 

The letter read as follows: 

London, March 15. 

“Dear Richard Monkton, Jr: 

“Your letter makes it all too certain that your 
father was my old friend. We had not kept in touch since 
the War, largely, I think, because the changes in our world 
were depressing to us both and would not bear discussing, 
but at one time we had been intimate and I feel very sorrow¬ 
ful when I think that he is gone. Our friendship dated from 
1896—the year, is it not?, of your own birth, when your 


TALK IN A FOG 


11 


parents were in England for many months. I am glad to 
hear from your letter that you resemble him, especially in 
regard to the eyebrows and the nick in the left ear .... 

“Now, I desire to ask a favor of you. Your father’s 
death raises the question of an ancient obligation,— 
no doubt forgotten by him, the obliger, but remembered by 
me. As you tell me you are now alone and with the need, 
like so many other brave soldiers, to face life anew, I want 
to see and talk with you and I want your help in discharging 
my debt. Come over to England prepared to make me a 
visit which will interest you and may be of great service to 
me. I write this letter surrounded by the beautiful things 
which your father loved and which, since you resemble him, 
you cannot fail to love also. There may be an opening here 
in England for the future. In any event I beg you, my dear 
young friend, for your good father’s sake, to take the next 
steamer and send me a cable message when that steamer will 
land. And you will forgive an old fellow if he presumes 
to enclose a bank draft for ilOO, that your sailing may not 
be delayed. 

“Yours very sincerely, 

“CHARLES VENTRIS.” 

“Charles Ventris!” repeated Sir John Flippin 
and started over his eye-glasses at the young 
man, “And you tell me your name is Monkton?” 
he again ejaculated, “God bless my soul!” 

“Well, I guess you see the rest for yourself,” 
the boy confessed, still with that undercurrent 
of perplexity in face and voice with which he had 
started the interview. “It wasn’t as if I had a very 
cheerful prospect at home, was it? Dad gone 
and the house and all his stuff sold—it was bleak 

enough.I can’t say I relished the idea of 

the Trust Company. Most fellows take it as a 
matter of course but that clerical sort of work 
appalled me. And—well, I guess we’re all more 



12 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


restless since the War; those of us who were in 
France particularly. We've lost the habit of 
building for the future, or playing safe as our 
fathers did, because we know how in a breath 

revolution or war may upset everything. 

yes: we're all more restless." 

He drew a breath of impatient acceptance of 
these harsh facts and hurried on: 

“Of course I was lonely—and I had been run 
down ever since the Argonne, just a bit of a 
wound, nothing much, but the doctor called it 
over-strain—idiotic at my age, but there you are! 
When I thought of going down to Broad and 
Chestnut Streets every single morning for all 
the rest of my life, I just couldn't bear it. So 
here I am." 

Sir John Flippin hardly appeared to listen. 
With his square mouth pursed and his heavy 
shoulders hunched, he seemed still concentrated 
upon the letter he turned and re-turned in his 
hands. When he spoke, it was to ask a question. 

“ *—-that you resemble him especially in re¬ 
gard to the twist in the eyebrows and the nick 
in the left ear,'" he read. “What does Ventris 
mean by that?" 

Richard's face lit with a sudden smile which 
wonderfully brightened it, as he traced with his 
forefinger the outline of his level brows to where 
they twisted into a little peak just above the nose. 
“You see? He asked me in the first letter if I'd 
any Monkton marks. There they are: just like 
father's and his father's. My left ear is nicked 
too—it's in the family." 



TALK IN A FOG 


13 


He paused, expecting the barrister to reply, 
but Sir John was still thoughtfully silent. 

“Since I've been aboard the ship,” Richard 
Monkton continued, quite plainly approaching 
the heart of his problem, “there's been more time 
to think it over—I can’t help wondering whether 
I’ve not been an impetuous ass! People don’t 
send five hundred dollars like that for nothing. 

It’s too queer for words.What does it mean, 

and who is he? Did you ever hear the name, 
sir?” 

“Charles Ventris? Oh yes; I know Charles 
Ventris well,” the barrister replied, starting to 
fill himself a pipe, having apparently tired of his 
cigar. Dick looked at him, surprised. 

“You do?” he eagerly cried. “Who is he? 
What’s he like?” 

Sir John sheltered the match in his big palms 
until his pipe was drawing well before he answer¬ 
ed the American’s query, lawyer-fashion, by ask¬ 
ing another. 

“Didn’t your father ever tell you anything 
about Charles Ventris?” he enquired. 

“I never heard the name mentioned that I can 
remember.. .But, as I said before, Dad cor¬ 
responded with every sort of person about his 
collections—old furniture and porcelains and 
books. He was devoted to ’em. I love that 
'sort of thing myself—though I don’t know all he 

knew.I had to be away a lot at school and 

college and I might not know all his correspond¬ 
ents concerning these things,” Richard explained. 

“H’m..quite. That might account for it.” 




14 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

Sir John handed Dick his letter, while his face 
showed that he was still thinking deeply. He 
began to talk, slowly but more freely, using the 
bluff speech, the contractions of his caste, 
“Charles Ventris.. .h’m-m.. .is rather a well- 
known figure. We belong to the same Club; I 
see him often, though we’re not intimate. He’s 
a man with a hobby—oh, more than a hobby! a 
passion—just as you describe your father—for 
beautiful old things—furniture—paintings—but 
especially for illuminated manuscripts. He is 
considered the first authority on those . So you 
see, he might very well know your father.” 

“I see. Is he an old man?” 

“By no means. Still in his prime. A knowl¬ 
edgeable man and with a personality which 
fascinates many people,” Sir John said, unaware 
that his standard of age differed considerably 
from that of this citizen of the Land of Youth. 

“Are his collections large?” Dick asked, deeply 
interested. 

“Oh, he doesn’t collect for himself—though 
they say his rooms are wonderful,” Sir John pro¬ 
ceeded. “For many years M. Charles (that’s 
the name most people know him by, just ‘Mon¬ 
sieur Charles/ as the French call him) was the 
secretary, curator, expert authority, and pur¬ 
chasing agent for Sir Piers Monkton of Shank. 
Have you ever heard of Shank ?”• 

“I seem to recall the name—it’s a house—or a 
castle, isn’t it?” 

“Shank never was a castle ” Sir John hastened 
to inform him, with that accurate knowledge of 


TALK IN A FOG 


15 


terms in use among- cultivated Englishmen which 
is the despair of Americans. “It isn't fortified. 
The foundation, you see, is ecclesiastical. The 
mansion is largely Tudor. It’s the seventh won¬ 
der of the world." 

“Why—" Dick hesitated; “I thought there 
were lots of splendid Great Houses in England?" 

“There are many. But none like Shank. It 
is not only perhaps the most perfect example of 
its kind that exists, but it houses the most mag¬ 
nificent collections in the world. It's full of 
priceless things. Paintings—why, there are 
seventeen Reynolds and nine Velasquez, to name 
only two groups. And the manuscripts—you've 
surely heard of the Monkton Missal—the Shank 
Treyze Plystoires?" 

The other shook his head. “Fear I haven’t," 
he confessed. 

“Your correspondent there has devoted his 
life to it," went on the barrister. “When Sir 
Piers succeeded, there was little money and the 
collections w T ere in disorder. Looked for awhile 
as though he might have to sell. This man Ven- 
tris appeared. He took charge, he studied, he 
worked, he weeded out; he sold here, he bought 
there, and always to advantage. He discovered 
manuscripts, treasures no one had known about. 
Between them, he and the owner made it what 
it is. That's why I'm sorry for him now." 

“Sir Piers died, then?" 

“Yes: about two months ago." Sir John's 
even voice continued as he walked the deck 
smoking imperturbably. “And you see he left 


16 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


no child. So the whole thing goes to a young 
gentleman who cares a good deal more about big 
game shooting than he does about Jacobean 
furniture or illuminated manuscripts. Ventris 
one is sorry for. It’s quite a tragedy.” 

While he talked, Sir John still gave Dick the 
impression that his mind was pursuing a differ¬ 
ent train of thought to obscure conclusions. Yet 
his next question was direct enough: 

“What bothers you about this letter?” 

Dick hesitated, finding it hard to define. “The 
money—I suppose. It seems sudden from a 
stranger. Ought I to take it? And what are 
the services and obligations he talks about?” 

“Quite so,” said Sir John, while inwardly re¬ 
flecting on this sensitive pride; “perhaps that 
letter is a little odd—eccentric—but then Charles 
Ventris is rather an odd fish. I don’t pretend to 
understand him myself. He’s not of my world 
at all, and he is absorbed in one idea. You know 
how such people are?” 

Dick nodded: he recalled Dad with a twinge. 

“Ventris isn’t like anybody else. He has no 
family apparently. I don’t know where he came 
from originally—Wales, I believe. Oh, he’s a 
gentleman, but a little odd—curious—I can’t ex¬ 
plain it. He has given his life to Shank and soon 
Shank will be his affair no longer. And Lady 
Monkton—hard luck for her after all her work— 
h’m, h’m—what was it I was hearin’ t’other day 
....?” Here Sir John’s voice tailed off into a 
mumble and a pause fell which lasted some 
moments before the listener, after waiting awhile 



TALK IN A FOG 


17 


in a very intensity of eagerness, ventured to re¬ 
call him: 

“You were telling me about this Lady Monk- 
ton, sir?” 

The barrister returned to the talk with a short, 
explosive sigh. 

“H’m, so I was, so I was.Well, when Sir 

Piers became a widower a good many years ago 

.under distressing circumstances. 

sad, very sad!.. .he grew more of a recluse than 
ever. Ventris and he were inseparable.. .lived 
entirely at Shank.. .worked over the collections 
...took no interest in anything else, y’know. 
This lady was secretary or assistant curator; 
she’s a wonder, knows everything about paint¬ 
ings, antiques, and so on. Monkton married her 
and that was that.” 

“Who was she?” 

This enquiry, natural to one with Richard’s 
birthplace, struck the elder man as oddly English, 
and he turned to appraise the face beside him. 
How thin and well-modelled it was—and how 
spirited, with the clear eyes under those peaked 
brows! 

“Foreigner, they say; awf’ly attractive—what ? 
She was the only woman Monkton could have 
chosen who wouldn’t have broken that friend¬ 
ship. .. .Sort of family affair and lived happily 
ever after. And now, it must be bitter to her.. 
..These great ladies... .England’s full of ’em, 
dethroned queens living in Bath or Bournemouth 
... .had her day and has to give up Shank. My 
Lord, but it must hurt!” He was knocking his 





18 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

pipe-bowl on the taffrail as he added: “Well, 
I’ve seen odd things in my day. Pretty dram¬ 
atic all this, my young friend, eh what... ?” 

Already Sir John was adopting the tone he 
might have used to the son of an old friend, nor 
did he seem surprised when the other turned 
toward him the wise smile of youth and 
answered: “’Cause it’s true, I guess, sir.... 
Life’s the bold dramatist, anyhow... .But there’s 
nothing in all this to explain why the antiquarian 
chap should send for me; now, is there?” 

Again Sir John fell into silence. “Perhaps 
not; yet—I’m by no means sure... .Ventris is 
not like other people, and just now he must be 
upset. Who can tell what impulse has moved 
him toward you ? And in any case, I see nothing 
to trouble you in it.” 

He seemed to Dick to be arguing with himself 
and Dick therefore took the side of Sir John’s 
unexpressed objections. 

“You’ve made it plainer, of course,” he admit¬ 
ted; “Yet all the same I can’t help feeling I am 
wrong to come.” 

The barrister heard the doubt and nodded in 
sympathy. 

“’Course I understand. Yet I think we’re 
both a bit fanciful... .You don’t like Queer 
Street,—neither do I, but the chap’s an oddity 
and you are committed to nothing.” 

“I’ve taken his money,” Richard insisted. 

“True. But money can be repaid. Now t , I’d 
take this as a holiday—after the Argonne.” Sir 
John’s voice was kind. “And here’s my card and 


TALK IN A FOG 


19 


my address. Look me up when you’re in Lon¬ 
don. If anything troubles you, come to me. 
Don’t hesitate.” 

So hearty, so cordial was this offer, so whole¬ 
some and direct the personality making it, that 
Dick began to feel, not only re-assured, but the 
least bit ashamed of his nervous anxiety. Sir 
John made the whole affair much simpler; and 
Dick’s rather morbid dread already began to give 
way to a sense of youthful adventure, which was 
far more normal. This he expressed in grateful 
if stumbling phrases, but manfully; and afresh 
the elder man was conscious of liking. Flippin 
could see what this young fellow’s charm might 
be, when no longer clouded with a certain over¬ 
intensity which should be honored for its cause. 

“A holiday will do you good, my lad,” he re¬ 
peated. “Things get out of proportion when 
one hasn’t been in health. And you’ve been 
alone too much... .Mind you come to me if you 
want to know anything about the customs of the 
natives.” 

Richard laughed and promised, and then, 
lighter of heart, disappeared to his cabin to dress 
for dinner. He left Sir John still smoking on 
deck and wearing the expression of firm kind¬ 
liness, which had first attracted the American to 
him. After Dick had gone, however, Flippin’s 
look gradually gave way to one of heavy per¬ 
plexity, which continued for the half-hour longer 
that he still stood, leaning on the rail and staring 
into the blind fog. 


CHAPTER II 

THE STRANGE LITTLE STREET 

D ICK MONKTON had been far more affect¬ 
ed by the events of the last two years than 
he admitted in his conversation with Sir John 
Flippin. His nature, high-strung, imaginative 
and intense, lacked the stolidity fittest for war- 
service and had suffered spiritually, even more 
than physically, from the strain and horror and 
exaltation of the task. His wound had not been 
serious, but, under the effects of it, his physical 
strength had been lowered. Illness heightened 
and accentuated his feeling of disorientation and 
loss. He felt the War: he felt his father’s death 
and the following disintegration of life, with a 
keenness which spared his nerves nothing, and 
this door into the unknown had offered what ap¬ 
peared like an escape. 

For there was more to run away from than 
just grief and loss. The confusion in Mr. Monk- 
ton’s affairs was of a peculiar kind—brought 
about by world-pressure on a quite unbusiness¬ 
like dilettante—and had involved the affairs of 
others to a startling and disagreeable extent. 
20 


THE STRANGE LITTLE STREET 


21 


Harsh things were said; harsh measures had been 
inevitable; and Richard was not the kind to try 
and save his own fortunes at the expense of the 
two old ladies, whose adviser his father had un¬ 
fortunately been. He might have done so, his 
lawyer told him, surveying the white-faced youth 
with appraising eyes—but of course he would 
not. To strip oneself of an intolerable burden 
had been Dick’s thought, and thus he had hur¬ 
ried the collection to auction and had accepted 
the first offer for the house in Clinton Street. 
When the Trust Company opening came, Dick 
at least knew that he owed it to those old friends 
whose esteem mattered and who approved his 
course. If these were few, they counted; and 
who cared about the others who whispered that 
he did these things only because he had to do 
them? Such whisperings came from the newer 
set—who resented the elder society because its 
standard of dignity and cultivation always crit¬ 
icized their standards of motor cars and money. 
Perhaps, unfortunately for himself, Dick be¬ 
longed by nature and by tradition to these elder 
Philadelphians; and thus life was made harder 
for him. He knew he ought not to think it a 
miserable prospect, this chance of a livelihood 
which Dad’s friends thought him so lucky to ob¬ 
tain, but his birthplace assumed an aspect cold 
and unfriendly, so that he longed to get away. 

Of course, he was*not at all well... The past 

had been so different.full of pain was that 

memory! All American cities have tended to 
lose individuality and be forced into conforma- 



22 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


tion with a universal type,—but in Richard’s 
home this alteration had been slow. His boy¬ 
hood held still the background of a friendly and 
reposeful city, just emerging from eighteenth 
century Georgian architectural forms into the 
commercial architectural forms generally prev¬ 
alent elsewhere. The house to which he ran 
from school was red brick with a white doorstep 
—the top of the front door wore the prim curve 
of a Quaker bonnet. In the parlor-windows, the 
panes of glass were mauve. An elderly colored 
butler stood on the step to w^atch the boy go, or 
opened the door on his return with an air of af¬ 
fectionate interest. 

“Yes, ma chile/’ was the inevitable formula of 
greeting, “you move quiet ’cause yo’ father’s in 
the liberry.” 

Up the long, straight, steep stairs, one whooped 
and ran. The room at the head of it had green 
walls and shabby, comfortable chairs and sofas, 
a hard coal fire and green shaded lamps. Old 
prints and engravings covered all those wall- 
spaces which were not occupied with cabinets or 
books. Sunshine came in at the bay-window. 
On the mantel were pipes and a clock and photo¬ 
graphs of Dad’s cronies, whose eminence he ex¬ 
plained to his son—the Shakesperean scholar— 
the medieval historian—the great nerve-specialist 
—the quaint gentleman with leonine hair, a cloak 
and pumps. Their faces wefe self-contained and 
not a little austere.... 

Dick remembered books and reviews on the 
centre table, the Ledger lying on a stool nearby, 


THE STRANGE LITTLE STREET 


23 


and the face turned toward him with a smile. 
He remembered the savory amplitude of lunch¬ 
eon—and how the sunlight falling on Dad's glass 
of Madeira splashed the white cloth with gold.. 
Old Daniel served them, grave, deferential and 
affectionate, always smiling with the same ap¬ 
preciation when Dad said: “Oh Daniel, Daniel, 
thou little knowest....!" 

When one was full of lunch, one went out— 
perhaps to play in the Square, perhaps to walk in 
the Park.... Of course this was when one was 
quite a little boy; but somehow it stood out in 
one's memory clearer than the years of school or 
college which had been broken by the chasm of 
the War.... 


Before the War came, Dick had been too young 
to be more than just vaguely troubled by Dad's 
increasing passion for collecting things. At 
moments, he wondered that Dad never went 
“down-town" any longer, nor left Clinton Street, 
even in the sultry summers, except to attend a 
sale somewhere. He knew that Dad dropped 
off one or two Clubs and was apt to mention this 
manuscript or that piece of china as having been 
bought at a sacrifice. Dad would tell Dick about 
them with an air to suggest that it was wholly on 
the boy's account the object had been acquired. 
Like most people who really love such things, 
Mr. Monkton almost always paid top prices and 
seldom bought at a bargain. Bargains were for 
dealers: and he was a lover, who suffered and sac¬ 
rificed for love. 

So, when they had to be sold in haste, in the 



24 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


slump following the Armistice, they sold at a 
loss.... Dick hated to think about it, that sale 
.... The pair of green vases in the corner-cab¬ 
inet; the two Ming princesses with pale uplifted 
hands which he was never allowed to touch— 
where were they now? Most of his friends 
couldn't understand how he felt—to their minds 
Dick had been, as it were, set free from care and 
responsibility—set free for sport and for gayety. 
Who cared about a lot of old things which al¬ 
ways got broken, or what house one lived in—or 
even if one lived in a house at all? Those Little 
Gods—so sacred to the early generations of 
Americans—who, like Rachel, cherished them 
and carried them into a far country, were now 
being gleefully thrown away by this new gen¬ 
eration, who cared nothing but to free itself, to 
strip its house of life as bare as a railway station. 

Dick's friends thought him rather lucky to 
tumble into a good, steady Bank, which always 
shut on legal holidays! As for the arts and 
France, whoever wanted to see Paris again after 
those horrible, horrible months? So Dick's 
friends thought and said to him; and Dick, who 
was deeply conscious of integral differences, 
found it wise to keep them to himself. To ex¬ 
press them savored of complaint or cowardice. 
Undoubtedly, this added to his sudden and lonely 
restlessness. 

These were the thoughts and pictures in his 
head as Dick sat next day in the express from 
Liverpool to London and looked forth upon an 
unfamilar landscape. April in this country 



THE STRANGE LITTLE STREET 


25 


seemed to cover the land with sunless mist, 
through which shone the green of a scanty and 
capricious leafage. In the midlands the fog of 
Liverpool turned to a fine rain, and this, in its 
turn, gave way to the soft, dull greyness of the 
South.... 

The train rattled along. The young man, sit¬ 
ting in his corner, was aware of odd fancies rising 
one after the other to the surface of his mind. 
How crowded the streets must be, this spring 
afternoon, in front of that great, marble Bank! 
He was glad he had talked overnight with Sir 
John Flippin. It was lucky there wasn't any 
girl he minded leaving—so far, he had never 
found it easy to get below the surface with girls. 
They all seemed absorbed in and excited about 

such funny things.dancing, or tennis or 

social service. One had not been tempted to re¬ 
veal one's main interest to them. Once he had 
tried, but the bewilderment in the clear, shallow 

eyes had checked this hesitating advance. 

Of course they were the finest girls in the world, 
everybody knew, but still he was glad there was 
no one in particular.... This journey was mo¬ 
mentous : it might lead very likely to some job 

over here and so change his whole outlook. 

Not a bad idea that he knew something about 
antiquarians and collectors and their ways. He 
prefigured his host to come as a crusty eccen¬ 
tric. . .but he was glad to have talked the matter 
over with the barrister, although it was plain 
that Sir John had certain reservations on the sub¬ 
ject of this Mr. Ventris- Perhaps that was 





26 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


the reason why even the talk had not cleared 
away Dick's own uneasiness—or perhaps he was 
homesick? Yet he had longed to get away from 
that alien birthplace where his home was his no 
longer—from the dull, rectangular streets where 
he would walk but to daily drudgery. Escape 
had seemed so glorious! Oh, this w r as just a 
passing mood and the K. C. was right—it was no 
mood in which to enter a holiday.... 

Dusk fell and lights shone forth by the time 
London was reached. Dick got a taxi quickly, 
for his modest kit consisted mainly of two big 
bags. When he told the address, he felt a thrill 
and for the first time captured the joy of adven¬ 
ture. And London, of all cities the most roman¬ 
tic, by its grey, sober noncommittal aspect, gave 

adventure its proper background. So many 

streets and squares and crescents and more 
streets, with big houses and interesting people 
in them! With beating heart he looked forth 
eagerly, this side and that, challenging the un¬ 
known. 

The cab seemed forever twisting in and out of 
short streets; cutting across dingy squares; 
turning into centres of light where crowds hast¬ 
ened, turning into quieter quarters where the 
lamp beat on empty pavements.. .halting in wide 
thoroughfares among banks of motors. 

On and on, round a square with a big statue 
to a curving crescent of mansions, toward a 
church. Round the church to a broad street 
with many shops and crowds and restaurants— 
Regent Street.... ^Thence into a concourse and 



THE STRANGE LITTLE STREET 


27 


out of it—out of the mass of people and motors 
and omnibuses, loading and unloading, stopping 
and starting, ladies in evening-clothes and offi¬ 
cers accompanying them, flower-sellers and 
placarded newsvendors—out of all this into a 
statelier quiet. 

The street descended at a slight grade, giving 
a clear view of the building which ended it. Al¬ 
though Dick saw this building in the actual for 
the first time, yet its outline was familiar; for all 
his life had he not dreamed of battlements and 
a crenellated roof with the pair of towers sup¬ 
porting a great clock and rising against a silver 

sky.? He watched it, fascinated. 

Half-way down the street, the taxi swung 
sharply aside into an alley, thence again at right 
angles into a second narrow alley, and stopped. 

Dick got out. The street was retired, dis¬ 
creet, empty. On one side was a series of houses 
with iron balconies and polished knockers; on 
the other, a large, heavy dark building, which 
looked, to his inexperienced eyes, like an institu¬ 
tion. While he was peering in hesitation at the 
tw'O door bells on this huge portal, the taxi driver 
had touched one of them and the door was opened 
by a man-servant. 

The man-servant addressed Richard by name 
before he had even spoken: 

“Mr. Monkton, sir? Yes, you are expected— 
this way!” In an instant, the cab was gone and 
the bags and the traveller were standing in the 
hall. 

Not brightly lighted, the hall gave a chilling 




28 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


effect of space. A vast, carven staircase sprang 
up from it in a series of bold flights. Dick found 
himself following the man-servant up and up. 
At the stairhead they emerged upon a smaller 
hall or antechamber, oblong in shape and with a 
floor patterned in colored marbles. There was 
little furniture but what there was deserved no¬ 
tice.... an eighteenth century mantlepiece, a 
pair of mirrors, a painted cassone, a Chinese rug 
or two in yellow and indigo. The doors were 
finely carved walnut; the pictures had individual 
lights under each. 

This antechamber was absolutely silent. Four 
doors gave upon it, much as on a stage—two, 
facing him, one on each side of the fireplace; the 
two others, one on the right wall and one on the 
left.... The man-servant, who moved with 
deliberation, set down the luggage and knocked 
at the left-hand door. In response to an inaud¬ 
ible request, he stood aside, holding the door 
open for Dick to pass through. A glow from the 
room within seemed to suffuse the whole hall. 


CHAPTER III 

THE APARTMENT IN THE GALLERY 

D ICK’S first impression was that he had step¬ 
ped into the heart of a golden sunset. The 
room was a long oblong, with three French win¬ 
dows on one wall and a fire-place facing them on 
the wall opposite. The whole formed one end 
of a long gallery which had originally stretched 
across the front of the building. All the coloring 
of this room was golden, ranging from the clear 
tone of many lamps, from the soft hue of curtains 
and coverings, to deeper notes of wood-brown 
and the crimson of the coal fire. Bulbs of bright¬ 
er gold on the walls were reflected from the rich 
objects standing about or from the bindings in 
tall cases. The walls themselves were panelled 
in walnut, shining like glossy, watered silk and 
studded with a dozen pictures. The place was 
full, yet not crowded; it yielded the newcomer an 
impression of the utmost luxury. By the soft 
light, a touch of perfume in the air from groups 
of flowers, and a welcome warmth after the 
night-chill, the guest was soothed and enfolded. 
Bewildered, he paused uncertainly, just within 

29 


30 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


the threshold, long enough to see that the one 
occupant of the room was seated in a big, leather 
chair facing the door, under a tall, standard lamp. 
Perhaps the host deliberately maintained this 
quiescent position long enough to gain some ef¬ 
fect from the man who stood hesitating, yet re¬ 
sponsive, in the doorway. Now, however, he 
rose swiftly and came forward with a smile and 
an extended hand. 

“My dear young friend!” he said, “you are 
welcome indeed.. Monkton’s son... .welcome 
indeed_sit down.” 

The voice was unbelievably sweet.... caress¬ 
ing in its lingering note of an unfamiliar and in¬ 
dividual timbre. It was not the least of Charles 
Ventris’s powers to charm; and the visitor could 
not but yield to it at once. The sound of this 
welcoming voice, he thought, was golden like the 
room. He was patted into a chair, where he sank 
with a sigh of enjoyment, and when he looked 
at his host with a smile, he saw it reflected. 

For a moment, in a frank pause, they surveyed 
one another. What the elder saw, Sir John Flip- 
pin had seen, only that the place, the moment, the 
atmosphere, relaxed the young American’s ex¬ 
pression into one sensitively genial and alight 
with pleasure. As for Richard, he beheld a tall, 
smiling man, with grey hair and a pale, clear-cut 
regularly modelled face, which was traced with 
a few benevolent wrinkles. The mouth was 
wide, narrow-lipped, delicate. He had dignity 
and repression, of manner, but, when he used his 
white, long hands in gesture, he did so with au- 


APARTMENT IN THE GALLERY 31 

thority and effect. The personality struck Rich¬ 
ard as having that studied and heightened quali¬ 
ty which one associates with the stage—but he 
was to learn that such personalities are not infre¬ 
quent in the Older World. Casting about for 
comparisons, he could only think vaguely of aris¬ 
tocrats and artists, yet somehow this Mr. Ven- 
tris was too vital for an aristocrat and too poised 
and complex for an artist. Dick then and there 
evolved a theory which was not far from being 
the right one: viz., that Charles Ventris was ex¬ 
otic and distinguished because his life was spent 
among surroundings that were exotic and dis¬ 
tinguished, and that he was intense because he 
was a man of one idea. Meanwhile he had fixed 
upon the stranger a pair of young, brilliant black 
eyes; eyes at once penetrating and kindly; and 
all the while, in his clear, strange voice he was 
asking little, unimportant questions about the 
voyage and the landing. 

“Your cablegram delighted me,” he avowed, 
leaning easily back in his chair and placing his 
finger-tips together. “I looked forward to your 
coming... .and, my dear lad, you do resemble 
your father! It all comes over me as if it were 
yesterday—though when I last saw him, he was 
bearded, as was then the mode.” 

“Yes....Dad always said I was a regular 
Monkton.” 

“A regular Monkton, indeed,” the other re¬ 
peated with a meditative inflection, and for an 
instant his mind seemed to move away from Dick 
into the past. But he looked up alertly at the 
young man’s next words: 


32 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“_What a wonderful room!...*you must 

show me your treasures. I love such things. 
I’m like Dad in that as well.” 

“Surely, surely!” Mr. Ventris replied, looking 
pleased: “but we shall have plenty of time for 
that—and for other things. I shall have more 
to show you than is in this room, you know.” 
He paused to ask, just as Sir John had done, only 
more solemnly: 

“Have you ever heard of Shank?” 

Richard answered promptly: “For the first 
time last night.” 

Mr. Ventris looked surprised. “How do you 
mean, last night?” 

Richard explained: although, in this soothing 
atmosphere, he recalled his late suspicions and 
doubts with a discomfiture which made him, per¬ 
haps, a trifle disingenuous in this explanation. He 
had fallen into talk with a friendly ship-compan¬ 
ion was therefore all that Mr. Ventris learned, 
and he paid it close attention. For the moment, 
the current of his talk was changed; for he began 
at once again on the subject of Mr. Monkton the 
elder and his collections. 

“His special interest when I knew him was in 
furniture and porcelain... .he must have had 
some fine pieces.... Did they sell well?” Dick 
swallowed hard and shook his head; the other 
made a sympathetic sound in his throat.... 

“Too bad! Here too, the markets were very 
poor at that time. You were in France when 
your father died, you said, I remember, so you 
had no final speech with him—just at the end?” 



APARTMENT IN THE GALLERY 


33 


A strange thing—an intimate thing to ask, 
Dick thought with a sensitive pang; but perhaps 
over here codes were different. He answered it, 
and several similar questions, and then, judging 
the other wished to recall his old friend, he told 
him a good deal about Dad and their last years 
together, and the cataclysm, to that quiet exist¬ 
ence, of the War. But after a little, Richard 
could not help feeling that Mr. Ventris, politely 
as he listened, did not seem really much inter¬ 
ested in Dad. He was a trifle distrait and his 
interruptions were not quite relevant—as when 
once he asked: “Your mother, I think, died when 
you were six or seven, did she not?” and a second 
time turned the pause by observing: 

“I suppose you’ve had the usual gentleman’s 
education over there? A school? An universi- 

ty?” 

Richard was again made self-conscious, al¬ 
though he could very well imagine reasons for 
asking such questions, yet he did not find them 
easy to answer, save by mere “Yes” or “No.” He 
kept expecting that Mr. Ventris would vouch¬ 
safe something concerning his invitation, his 
summons thither—some reason for it—but his 
host never came near the subject at all. At 
length he ventured to approach it himself: 

“Naturally your letter was a great surprise. 
That sort of chance doesn’t often come to one, 
except in a novel. I know, of course, that there 
must be a reason—” 

The quiet man-servant was in the room again. 
He addressed his master: “Mr. Coles is down¬ 
stairs again, sir.” 


34 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARR 


“Who?” 

“Mr. Coles, sir. He asks to see you.” 

“I cannot see him now—I am particularly en¬ 
gaged. What does he want ?” 

“He wished to know if you have anything for 
him, sir_and if the young gentleman has ar¬ 

rived?” 

Mr. Ventris seemed put out; he thought before 
replying. During the pause, the man-servant 
looked over Dick’s head at the wall. 

“You may tell him I will see him tomorrow— 
and that Mr. Monkton came about an hour 
ago.... 

The man withdrew and Mr. Ventris turned 
toward Dick with a gesture—“An old retainer 
—very tiresome,” he murmured. “You were say- 
ing— ?” 

But it was hard to go back to just what Rich¬ 
ard was saying, particularly when his host 
launched at once into a delightful description of 
London life and pleasures—talk about auction- 
sales and museums, about Clubs and collectors, 
full of color and vivacity and point. This he 
broke off only to glance at his watch. 

“And here it wants but half-an-hour to din¬ 
ner—how inconsiderate of me! You shall go to 
your room at once. Here is Andrews most 
a propos ....” 

The butler brought a letter. Mr. Ventris read 
it with raised eyebrows and made no comment. 
This was no moment to demand explanations— 
but rather to bask in his warmth of hospitality 
... .Richard followed Andrews. 


APARTMENT IN THE GALLERY 


35 


His bed-room was behind one of the doors he 
had noticed opening from the central antecham¬ 
ber. It was comfortable, and carefully beauti¬ 
ful, perhaps he thought it a little unmanly. The 
windows, he had but time to notice, looked out 
upon a large, vague open space which suggested 
a garden. Surely a very large garden for a city? 
Dick would like to have observed it, but feared 
to be late. He dressed quickly, and with a re¬ 
newed sense of romantic possibility and enjoy¬ 
ment of things, with an altogether new confi¬ 
dence, he rejoined Mr. Ventris and they went in 
to dinner. 

Served in a room exactly across the hall from 
the sitting-room, of the same size and shape but 
glowing with tones of blue instead of gold—this 
dinner was wonderful. The food was almost as 
much a work of art as the glass and porcelain, 
and there was wine of a quality quite beyond the 
American’s experience. He felt almost at ease 
—talked freely. The elder listened, with his fine, 
colorless face attentive; or asked adroit questions. 
Always the replies pleased him. Once, however, 
he broke out in astonishment, when Dick inno¬ 
cently referred to the building as “the apartment 
house.” 

“My dear boy!” he ejaculated, as if shocked, 
“this is Monkton House!” then, seeing Dick’s 
puzzled look: “This is the town residence of the 
Monkton family. Sir Piers had the gallery al¬ 
tered, as you see it now, into a little home for 
me. On account of the estate and the collections 
and so on, I have to be much in London, whereas 


36 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


he rarely came up himself, preferring to stay at 
Shank” 

He proffered this explanation with such seri¬ 
ousness and seemed to think it so important, that 
Dick became aware that, with all his charm of 
speech, Mr. Ventris was apparently somewhat 
deficient in a sense of humor. This was con¬ 
firmed later. Mr. Ventris had cynicism and pic¬ 
turesqueness of outlook in his talk; he said small, 
pointed things with inimitable grace; he smiled 
a good deal and summoned others to smile; but 
he didn’t laugh. Possessed as he was by the con¬ 
sciousness of the Monktons and their affairs and 
their belongings, one often came into con¬ 
tact, under his man of the world polish, with an 
intensity that amounted to passion. Dick found 
this strange now; later, it seemed natural. Mr. 
Ventris fulfilled his personality completely; and 
he showed this immediately by launching, during 
dinner, into an eloquent account of the Monktons 
and of Shank. His eyes glowed; he could not 
permit his guest to remain for an instant unap¬ 
preciative of these matters. 

Richard listened, almost indulgently. Mean¬ 
while he felt that Sir John Flippin was perfectly 
right—it was going to be a wonderful experi¬ 
ence. Perhaps it was a little strange Mr. Ventris 
should be so evasive; but, barring this Dick was 
beginning to think his host one of the most fas¬ 
cinating people that he had ever met. 


CHAPTER IV 

THE EYES BEHIND THE SCREEN 

A N hour later, he was still of the same mind. 

By this time they were back in the library 
and Mr. Ventris was showing his guest some 
specimens of fine 17th century binding. “These 
are nothing—nothing!” he waved them aside, 
“You should see them at Shank. You will see 
them. We are to run down there in a few days 
—after we finish here. Lady Monkton is ex¬ 
pecting us.” 

Finish what? Dick wondered. He ventured: 
“The family was originally connected with ours 
then? Is that why—?” 

“Your father belonged to the cadet branch of 
the Monktons of Shank. A son of the house emi¬ 
grated to the States at the beginning of the 18th 
century,” said Mr. Ventris, precisely closing the 
cabinet and moving on to the next case. “It was 
the name, of course, that first attracted my at¬ 
tention—congeniality of taste confirmed it. Do 
you share his love of miniatures? Let me show 
you—” 

The Breviary which he laid in Richard's 

37 


38 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

hands was a piece of tiny perfection. Their two 
heads bent over it. 

“It is one of fifteen belonging to Margaret 
of Brittany,—all bound in satin. . The miniatures 
are by Orderico, the friend of Giotto. And look 
at this.” 

He drew forth a large volume, with clasps. of 
pierced and wroughten silver, at which Dick 
glanced in amazement. 

“Dad’s Virgil!” . 

“You recognize it?” 

“You were the buyer, then?” 

“Yes. I sent over to the sale and secured it.. 
Did you not know that he bought it from me in 
the first place, twenty-four years ago? In my 
letter to you—” 

“Yes, I remember; I am glad. There’s a pic¬ 
ture in it,” Dick said, “that I always loved—Dido 
parting from iEneas in the loveliest garden....! 
There’s real feeling—genius, in that picture.” . 

“I don’t recall it,” his host answered, but he 
smiled at the other’s enthusiasm and his eyes 
were bright under their white lids. He watched 
Richard thus, still smiling.... until the Virgil 
had been closed and replaced. 

Suddenly, Dick felt tired. The sight of the 
familiar binding brought with it a wave of home¬ 
sickness. He moved away from the bookcase 
and the elder fell in with his mood. They re¬ 
sumed their chairs by the hearth and Dick was 
glad to rest and turn his mind to the suave con¬ 
versation of his host. That warm, golden glow 
again enfolded him and yet the troubling beauty 



EYES BEHIND THE SCREEN 


39 


of the room held a certain uneasiness hard to 
define. The tall man opposite bent half-hidden 
eyes on him and seemed, in his dignified mascu¬ 
line beauty, also a work of studied and polished 
art, suited to such a background. One had to get 
used to it. Delightful though it was, there was a 
little strain perhaps_What a peculiar experi¬ 

ence—and nothing at all said so far about why 
he had been sent for! 

Probably that would come out tomorrow. 
Meanwhile, because he was weary of these new 
sensations, Dick laid back his head and began 
idly to examine the objects spread around him 
in the sumptuous room. Next the hearth, behind 
his host, a tall Italian cabinet opened doors en¬ 
riched with an inlay of ivory and thin slabs of 
opal. Upon it a Chinese jewelled tree sprouted 
from a porcelain bowl into a foliage of jade with 
fruit of amber. The tall lamp shone upon these 
golden blossoms. How very beautiful!.... 
Idly, Dick began to follow object after object, his 
mind carving a phrase about each-, The de¬ 

licious voice of Mr. Ventris began to seem far 
away_but his eyes, clear and kind and bril¬ 

liant, gleamed like points of light.... One 
mustn’t fall asleep; so Richard began to enumer¬ 
ate: 

Beyond the cabinet, an Eros, resting, in apple- 
green bronze.... 

A black-figured cyclix, circled with a dance of 
maenads. 

A crystal Kwannon, carved as from a piece of 
ice. Next it, a lapis tazza, supported by a gold 
standard.... 




40 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Six small bowls of Canton enamel, with tiny, 
bright flowers, like the borders of a Persian 
rug- 

A ceremonial robe of orange, with silver flow¬ 
ers, blue bats and mauve butterflies, spread as 
background to an ivory triptych, crowded with a 
crucifixion.... 

Then, a shrine of sculptured and scarlet lac¬ 
quer, painted and gilt, in honor of a subtle-faced 
Buddha, whose long, strange fingers were lifted, 
invoking peace. 

This brought him to a corner of the room, by a 
tall, pierced screen. As his gaze reached it, 
Dick’s heart began to pound his side. Someone 
was standing behind that screen and staring at 
him . ... 

With every instinct alert, he turned his gaze, 
not too quickly, back to his host’s face.... He 
heard his own voice, polite, steady, and he heard 
the other launch on an exposition in reply. Again 
he looked back to the corner by the screen. Yes: 
there was no doubt at all.... someone stood 
there in the angle, immobile, yet alive, and with 
eyeballs that moved and shone. He could see 
nothing more—the figure was tall and dark: it 
seemed to wear a hood or cowl... .it was breath¬ 
lessly still, now that his gaze was on it—and this 
stillness seemed sinister. Should he speak of it? 
—he must speak of it!—No, he could not. As he 
sat in his chair, the consciousness of being spied 
upon was so strong, so unpleasant, that Dick 
closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, his host had risen 
and was looking down upon him in concern. 



EYES BEHIND THE SCREEN 


41 


“How remiss of me! You must be tired out— 
my dear boy, you should have said so long 
ago—” Mr. Ventris was saying, and Dick found 
himself stammering a protest but caught in this 
hospitable current and carried to his room.... 
Surely, he could not speak now of what he had 
just seen. He glanced at the screen—the eyes 
were gone. Perhaps he had fallen asleep—per¬ 
haps he had dreamed_? But once the bed¬ 

room door had closed upon him, once he was 
alone, Dick was filled with the absolute certainty 
that he had not fallen asleep, that the spying 
eyes, the shrouded figure, were real, were not a 
dream. 

In his room was silence: not a sound from the 
city streets seemed to pierce to it. He went to a 
window, opened the pane, leaned out. As he had 
supposed, there lay below, a large, quadrangular 
space of garden, enclosed in high walls, with 
vague clumps of shrubbery and paths among 
them. 

The distant murmur was London.... What 
was wrong with this place, anyhow ? What did 
it all mean? At moments, recalling his host’s 
graciousness, Dick blamed his own nerves, tell¬ 
ing himself that it was just imagination—for 
what could be wrong?—and all the while not be¬ 
lieving. ... Then he would recall that host’s 
strange evasiveness; the spy set to watch him 
from behind the screen. No: this couldn’t be im¬ 
agination or nervousness only. There was ten¬ 
sion in the atmosphere; an odd excitement un¬ 
derlay the tranquillity of this reception; these 



42 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


things were real. Sir John Flippin had been puz¬ 
zled; something important was hidden; his in¬ 
stincts, sharpened perhaps from strain, spoke un¬ 
mistakably against them—spoke a warning. He 
looked at his watch; it marked a late hour, and, 
though he had never felt further from sleep in 
his life, yet he turned mechanically to look for 
his night things. There stood his big bag: but 
where was the smaller suit-case? He recalled 
seeing it lifted out of the cab: perhaps it had been 
forgotten, left in the hall below. He opened his 
room door quietly—the mere fact of this small, 
concrete action gave him diversion and relief. 

As Dick crossed the hall and went down the 
stairs he was struck afresh by the silence of the 
place—not the sound of a voice anywhere, nor 
the stir of a movement. All the lights glowed 
softly over the beautiful objects; and this back¬ 
ground seemed empty—expectant.... Reach¬ 
ing the lower hall, young Monkton looked about 
and soon espied the missing bag, standing over¬ 
looked in a corner. Now that he had found it, 
He felt somehow reluctant to climb those long 
stairs again to his bed-room; he was still alert, 
tense, uneasy; he stood hesitating.... 

The hall was vast, sparsely furnished and dim¬ 
ly lit. One wall was occupied by the main portal, 
the other held a smaller door, which must, Dick 
judged, give access to the garden. The sight of 
it gave him a sudden longing to move about in 
fresher air. A turn or two in the garden-paths 
would steady his nerves and rid him of this fool¬ 
ish oppression. He set down his bag again, 
turned back the bolt and slipped out. 


EYES BEHIND THE SCREEN 


43 


Strange place this for the heart of a big city! 
Before him stretched a good-sized garden, 
walled all about, with dark hedges growing 
against the walls; with trees and bushes in the 
centre and a flagged walk surrounding them. 
Here and there stood statues. Across one end 
rose the bulk of the house, in stately grandeur, 
unlit and silent. A palish sky bent overhead with 
a few, faint stars: against the horizon a tower 
rose. Very distant came the roll of traffic. The 

spring night felt damp and fresh_ The place 

was of a kind new to Dick’s experience, and he 
looked about him with interest and curiosity 
which for the moment overlay his disquiet. He 
walked down the path, between the shrubbery 
and the wall, till he reached the end of the gar¬ 
den, then turned and began to walk toward the 
house again.... 

Thinking over the events of the night, Dick 
was not able to remember whether he heard 
the voices first, or saw the light. The latter 
brought him to a standstill because of its 
strangeness. What he noticed first was just an 
oval, white patch, lying on the path, some dis¬ 
tance away from where he stood and nearer to 
the house.... This patch was made by a shift¬ 
ing spot of light, not remarkably bright, but def¬ 
initely the light of a lantern. The odd thing was 
that he couldn’t see where it came from. It 
moved, however, moved in his direction, shakily 
but steadily progressing; and with it came, faint 
and indistinct but growing louder, the sound of 
yoices. The light skipped about capriciously on 


44 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


the flags—now hidden, now clear, until Dick 
suddenly realized—. That garden wall which 
rose on his left hand to a height of ten feet or so, 
was by no means solid; on the contrary, it was 
hollow; and before the open space hedges had 
been planted which hid that fact, and which, by 
night at least, gave an illusory impression of 
solidity. There had been in this wall a shallow, 
cloistered walk, whose openings were cunningly 
hidden by the growth of a hedge concealing this 
walk from view of one standing in the garden, 
and which might have remained concealed, only 
that now, within that cloistered passage, some¬ 
one was walking with a lantern, whose rays 
pierced through chance holes in the hedge to 
shine at intervals upon the path.... 

Instinct, the same which had kept Dick silent 
when the spying eyes had rested on him in that 
golden room, kept him silent now. He stepped 
into the projecting shadow of a neighboring 
bush. There he watched the light draw nearer, 
rest on the flags at his feet, flicker past. An in¬ 
terchange of low talk accompanied it: the inflec¬ 
tions seemed foreign to his ear... .he caught no 
words, but once he thought there was subdued, 
soft laughter. The voices, the light, passed his 
bush and went on down toward the bottom of 
the garden. Would they return? To ‘the im¬ 
pulse which suddenly overmastered the young 
man, several obscure forces contributed'and rea¬ 
son played no part whatever. His own strain, 
the uncertainty of his future, the unfamiliarity 
of scene and of atmosphere, the subtle, warning 


EYES BEHIND THE SCREEN 


45 


under-current, the baffling insult of all these 
mysteries—all united into action. Mentally this 
impulse took definite shape—that, come what 
may, he would not sleep in that place. Absurd, 
unreasonable, rude, ungrateful—oh, no doubt all 
these and more!... .yet he could not sleep under 
this roof. There was no more to it than just 
that. He was—rather to his own surprise—quite 
decided, quite collected. His mind moved 
straight and steadily on an indicated path.... 

For some moments, the light had vanished, 
the garden was relieved of it and the shrubs 
breathed and stirred in the night wind. It was 
growing very late.... 

And then, far down the path, Dick beheld the 
wavering light once more approaching him. Not 
an instant did he linger.... He had left the 
door ajar and in three strides, or so it seemed, 
regained the hall. Still the light burned on in 
that sinister quiet. He picked up his bag; studied 
the complicated bolts of the front-door, had it 
open in a few seconds; and let himself out into 
the street.. 




CHAPTER V 

DIFFERENT BY DAY-LIGHT 


T HERE is no revelation more unpleasant than 
that of the power of our own nerves. Sooner 
or later it comes to all, and to youth it is often the 
first breach in the armour of self-confidence. The 
“How can I have done that?” expressed in one’s 
bewilderment, is a realization that man is not 
captain of his soul unless he receive promotion 
on the field of battle. Dick Monkton, as he sat 
down next morning to breakfast, simply could 
not believe in his own incredible'behavior of the 
night before. 

Till morning came, he did not t^ste the full, 
unpleasant savor of this consciousness. At the 
time, impulse possessed him and shut the door 
of his mind. Under the benediction of the Palace 
clock, St. James’s, dignified and tranquil, had 
seemed a refuge; still more of a refuge was the 
cab which carried him to a dingy station hotel. 
In his room there and almost at once, he had been 
overcome with heavy sleep. With the awaken¬ 
ing, came an intolerable sensation; and he looked 

46 


DIFFERENT BY DAY-LIGHT 


47 


suddenly upon himself as though set free from 
the power of some evil spell. 

He, Richard Monkton, had run away from a 
host who had welcomed him with kindliness and 
whose money was still in his pocket....! Such 
an action was impossible. As he tried to eat, he 
choked over the memory.... Well, this at least 
settled the affair for good and all. No doubt 
now what he must do, since the evil spell was 
broken. He would seek out Sir John Flippin and 
leave in his charge the balance of Mr. Ventris’s 
money for transmission to the owner. He must 
follow this by arranging immediately to draw the 
remainder from the few hundreds which were 
still lying to his credit in the bank at home, and 
place them in the same hands to repay the sum 
in full. Then, if there was no chance of any 
sort of work in England—and for a time at least, 
he would rather stay on—probably he could get 
home by taking a job as a stoker. Lots of fel¬ 
lows had done it.... 

The coffee-room, wherein Dick came to these 
desperate resolutions, was crowded and stuffy 
and frowsy—only it was not noisy. Voices on 
the whole were low-pitched: one could think in 
quiet. A beefy-faced waitress, who served him 
with unattractive food, thought he had very lit¬ 
tle bounce. She preferred the livelier gentlemen 
from Birmingham or Bradford, and she sniffed 
at the sixpence which he gave her as unworthy 
of an American. He was “sort of palish-like” 
she thought; and her eyes followed his tall figure 
as it walked out, quite unseeing. Monkton, in 



48 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


point of fact, was absorbed in the unbearable 
awareness of himself, caused by his last night’s 
impulse, and was just in the frame of mind to 
yield to impulses equally rash.... 

So it happened that Sir John Flippin, turning 
to his desk for a quiet hour before setting out for 
chambers, was surprised to receive a visit from 
his late shipboard acquaintance, who, with small, 
excited gestures and young eyes full of trouble, 
proceeded to pour out to him an incoherent and 
fantastic story. One would have laughed, if the 
face before one had not worn a look so miser¬ 
able. 

To Dick, Sir John seemed ruddier, bulkier, 
more common-sensical than ever, as he sat with 
pursed mouth in his big, leather chair. He had 
been a great horseman, had Sir John, in his 
youth; he was said to have the lightest hand on 
the bit of anyone in the county. He handled 
Richard now as though he had been a nervous 
horse, in a manner at once both disciplinary and 
soothing. 

“But, my dear young friend,.my dear lad, 

if you will permit me,” he repeated, patting the 
arm of the chair into which he had all but forced 
his restless visitor; “there has been a misunder¬ 
standing—surely nothing like so serious as you 
think and capable of the simplest explanation. 
Ventris, I thought I’d forewarned you, is a trifle 
melodramatic by temperament — artistic, you 
know, and all that sort of thing—and not incapa¬ 
ble of a coup de theatre , as I know very well. It’s 
dull of him not to see that you are hardly the 
person—” 




DIFFERENT BY DAY-LIGHT 


49 


Richard broke eagerly in. “It’s not Mr. Ven- 
tris that worries me today,” he cried and was out 
of his chair in an instant, “but me, myself—my 
amazing return for what was nothing but kind¬ 
ness- I’ve not come to complain of him— 

though I don’t understand.... No, no.... 
Here’s what remains of the £100 he sent me, 
and I’m going at once to cable home and have 
the balance sent direct—if you will arrange to 
tell him. He won’t want to see me again—and 
no wonder!” 

Sir John, watching the speaker, silently no¬ 
ticed the excess of the same characteristics 
which he had observed in their first talk—and 
thought it well merely to nod acquiescence. 
Richard sat down again, feeling a little absurd. 

“And after that, what do you propose to do?” 
was the lawyer’s question, and Dick raised his 
thin shoulders. “I shall decide that later,” he 
replied, with a shy hauteur; “go home, I sup¬ 
pose.” 

There fell a pause after this brave answer. 
Sir John let the bank-notes lie on the table where 
Dick had laid them. With his eye on a corner 
of the ceiling, he seemed to reflect in a space of 
trying deliberation, which Dick, however im¬ 
patient, felt he ought not to interrupt. 

“You are a hasty—an impetuous young man, 
in my opinion,” was Sir John’s authoritative ut¬ 
terance, after some minutes. “You make much 
of the money obligation; yes, more,” he emphat- 
icably repeated as the other started to protest, 
“than I think justified at this stage..... You 


50 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


mustn’t be flighty, my lad. I know Charles Ven- 
tris—he is not quixotic. I have read him hereto¬ 
fore as a man of one idea. Shall I confess to you 
that your story of night before last did not cause 
me to alter this opinion? It is stupid of Ventris 
not to be frank with you—because there is more 
under all this, I feel sure, than meets the eye.” 

“Maybe,” Dick persisted—“but that’s not my 
affair. This money-” 

“You don’t take my point. Let us be blunt. 
How if this money be no gift, but a discharged 
debt—or, if you like it best, conscience money? 
His letter spoke, if I have not forgotten, of some 
obligation—? Oh, I may sound cryptic, but I 
have my reasons!” 

This new idea brought a faint color into Rich¬ 
ard’s cheeks and he stared at Sir John. 

“You mean,” he hesitated, “that Ventris and 
my father.... ?” 

“I mean,” said the barrister with formidable 
emphasis, “that you should open your mind.... 
Charles Ventris has all his life Hired in the ex¬ 
pert’s world—a narrow, but a fascinating place 
to dwell. He has lived there, as it were, on his 
wits, and they have done him pretty well—to all 
appearances. Who can say what he has owed 
to other men’s brains—or what engagement he’s 
now tardily recognizing? Your father’s death— 
may it not have raised that obligation?” 

“I see. You think that would account for his 
silence about it?” 

“Quite so. It accounts much better than your 
idea of a caprice of generosity.” Sir John had 



DIFFERENT BY DAY-LIGHT 


51 


begun to use toward Richard a manner suggest¬ 
ing that the affair had passed out of the latter’s 
hands into his own. He went on in his legal, 
rotund accents: “In my experience, a person with 
one idea does not act without reference, sooner 
or later, to that dominating idea. Here we are 
to look for an explanation of this puzzling oc¬ 
currence. ...” 

“Yes—but meanwhile, I cannot—” 

“We shall set to work to find out all about this 
in the most direct and simplest way; we shall 
ask Charles Ventris to explain.” He looked at 
Dick and Dick saw the unspoken additional 
query and reluctantly answered it. 

“You are wondering why I didn’t ask him last 
night—when I saw the spy behind the screen— 
why I didn’t speak out?” 

“I am rather,” said the lawyer composedly. 

“I’ve asked myself a hundred times since—but 
I don’t know! I couldn’t seem to.... He was 
charming—but so strange, and the room so 
beautiful—” His voice trailed wretchedly off 
in a murmur, and Sir John, putting his lips to¬ 
gether, said: “Very interesting, that!” to him¬ 
self. Aloud, with a weighty gesture, he simply 
continued his decisive directions: “Well, I have 
determined that until we know more, you shall 
not commit yourself. You are in my hands.” He 
spoke with continued sympathy, but with a final¬ 
ity that admitted of no protest. “The day is 
going to be fine—forget your problem and see all 
you may of this wonderful city. Return here— 
at, shall we say, five? By tea-time, I fancy, we 


52 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


shall be able to set your mind at rest both as to 
the past and the future.” 

Sir John Flippin rose; it was evident that he 
considered the interview at an end. Richard 
therefore could not delay to take leave and soon 
found himself upon the pavement of Sloane 
Street. As he glanced back at the small, com¬ 
fortable house, with its blossoming window- 
boxes, and recalled the well-lighted, book-lined 
study, Richard had to admit that London was a 
wonderful city for old bachelors....! 

Left to himself, Sir John stretched out his 
hand for the telephone; then, thinking better of 
it, wrote the following note instead. 

“Sloane Street, April 17. 

“Dear Ventris: 

“Your late guest, the American boy, has been here in great 
trouble of mind. We made friends on shipboard and he has 
confided in me, No doubt you have noticed the effects of ner¬ 
vous strain in him—the combined results of war-service, of 
his father’s sudden death, and of the painful financial situa¬ 
tion which that death discovered. A little tragedy, but poig¬ 
nant : and quite enough to cause his rather impulsive desertion 
of your roof last night. He seems simply to have experienced 
an overmastering distrust; and you must forgive the lad, be¬ 
cause now that he has come to his senses, his own conduct 
seems to him intolerable. 

“Some touch of mystery; some lack of frankness in your¬ 
self; with certain strange appearances, which his nerves no 
doubt exaggerated, made him bolt, as it were, for the stable.. 
I’ve seen colts do it who became steady hunters in 

time.This morning, the repayment of your loan is 

his chief concern. Can you drop in here about five? I like 

the lad.and wish to see matters set right, if I 

may.” 






DIFFERENT BY DAY-LIGHT 


53 


This letter despatched by messenger, the bar¬ 
rister betook himself, later than he liked, to the 
Temple; where some hours passed before a reply 
was handed him. 

“Your letter greatly relieved my mind, my dear Flippin.. 
“What a fortunate chance you had met my young friend! 
Of course I stand ready to forget the incident and even to 
admit that I should have been more open with him from the 
beginning. But momentous issues hung upon our interview: 

nor did I expect to find one so independent.I know 

little of American youth. At five expect me; when I 
shall explain myself—although I warn you, my dear Flippin, 
that this explanation will greatly astonish you.” 

“Yours sincerely, 

“C. VENTRIS ” 

Sunshine lay still on Sloane Street when Rich¬ 
ard returned there. He had spent a curious day. 
On the tops of ’buses swaying through twisting 
streets; eating a sandwich at the Cheshire 
Cheese; poking about the grim, small precincts 
of the Tower; resting in reverent quiet among 
the dusky splendors of the Abbey—and all the 
while, projected, mind and spirit alike, toward 
that crucial hour of five in the afternoon. He did 
not wholly believe Sir John’s theory although he 
wanted to believe it_ His imagination re¬ 

tained the bizarre thrill of that rich and studied 
room—where someone watched and spied on him 
with bright eyes, from behind a screen.... He 
tried reasonably to account for such an incident 
_and reasonably could not do so without pre¬ 
supposing that the spy stood there with his 
host’s knowledge.... Moreover, in Mr. Yen 



54 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


‘tris’s manner, there had been (it seemed clearer 
in recollection) a significant undercurrent. His 

eyes had gleamed as they rested on his guest- 

And why ? Sir John’s suggestion accounted only 
for Dick’s invitation, for his reception: for in the 
more fantastic incidents of the evening, Sir John 
expressed polite evasion, if not disbelief.... 

Therefore, Dick, in his wanderings about Lon¬ 
don, that most romantic of cities, began to feel 
like a hero of the Arabian Nights. In London 
everything seemed natural; London seemed to 
keep its own secrets, seven million secrets. Dick 
told himself not to get excited, and to look well 
upon England because it was more than likely 
that his hours there were numbered. Adventure 
knocks twice at few men’s doors_ The com¬ 

ing interview, with its painful mortifications, 
must be supported with manliness, and then fare¬ 
well!- Yet always there was an imp of per¬ 

verse youth within him who kept whispering 
that the adventure might be only just about to 
begin.... 

The young American’s manner, although still 
tense and concentrated, was quite composed 
when he was once more ushered into the barris¬ 
ter’s study. Here he found two men engaged in 
the closest conversation. Sir John, frowningly 
absorbed, his great hand playing with his eye¬ 
glasses, his rather careless dress reminiscent 
of a sporting youth, formed a striking con¬ 
trast to the more exquisite figure of Mr. Ven- 
tris. If Dick had prepared to meet with a cold 
reception in that quarter, he had also prepared a 



DIFFERENT BY DAY-LIGHT 


55 


mood of humility. This was not needed. As he 
entered, the other, springing lightly up, came for¬ 
ward with hand outstretched and a face marked 
only with concern. 

“Monkton, my dear chap! Why did you not 
come to me at once? Oh, not a word! It’s my 
fault entirely—yet excusable, as you shall hear 

_I admit, I wasn’t as frank as I should have 

been—” His black eyes sought the other’s face 
with anxious sympathy—“But what’s all this 
about a light in the garden and a hidden spy? 
Of course you know you must have dreamed?” 

Dick said something; his relief was enormous. 
Under the influence of this cordial charm, he be¬ 
gan to assure himself he had dreamed. Every¬ 
thing was so different. This homely study, with 
pipe-ashes all over the hearth, its desk piled with 
briefs, its faded curtains—seemed to cast a 
dream-like unreality over the golden glow of last 
night’s memory. Evidently his imagination 
must have run away with him. Everything is 
different by daylight.... How kind these peo¬ 
ple were!_ But Sir John was speaking. 

“All that is of no importance now. What Ven- 
tris has to tell you, my dear lad, simply alters 
everything.... Sit down.” 

Richard obeyed, wondering. The barrister’s 
tone was portentous.... Dick glanced from one 
to the other nervously. He observed that Mr. 
Ventris, who was a very tense man, was paying 
no attention to himself but directing his words 
entirely to the K. C, beginning slowly, ending 
in a rush... 



56 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“As I was telling you, Flippin, when Monkton 
was announced, I have reasons, convincing rea¬ 
sons, to think—nay, that I do solemnly believe 
this young man to be none other than the only 
son of Sir Piers Monkton and therefore the pres¬ 
ent legal inheritor of Shank.” 


CHAPTER VI 

THE WHITE FUR RUG 

S TUPEFACTION fell upon Dick at this mon¬ 
strous statement. Now he knew what the 
matter was—the man was mad! He looked 
across at the barrister, but Sir John, with his 
lower lip thrust out, was the picture of attentive 
gravity. The manner of Mr. Ventris was calm 
but underlain with triumph. Neither looked at 
Dick, who had given utterance to a sort of 
shout. It was as if he had not spoken and the 
conversation continued for some moments be¬ 
tween the two Englishmen exactly as if the 
American had not been present. 

“I repeat, Ventris, your idea is the wildest ro¬ 
mance. The child was drowned. That poor 
young creature drowned her child.” 

“May I point out, Sir John, that the infant's 
body was never found?" 

“Surely you are, you must be, in error. Did 
not Lucy Monkton—?” 

“The body of Lucy Monkton was taken from 
the Thames. Her child was never found. We 
thought that natural at the time. For twenty- 
57 


58 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


three years I supposed the heir to have perished 
with his mother. I now know him to be living 
—to be sitting in this room.” Mr. Ventris spoke 
with a solemnity that turned Richard cold. 

“But how came such an idea into your head—? 
By Jove, Ventris, you know—what you are say¬ 
ing is no light matter....! You must have 
proofs—or what you think are proofs—?” 

“Quite so, Sir John,—one moment! You re¬ 
member the date of Lady Monkton’s death, do 
you not?” 

“The autumn of 1896, if I remember. I was 
shootin' somewhere—it made a great talk at the 
time.” 

“October 27th, 1896, was the last day on which 
the poor lady was seen alive. The boy was near¬ 
ly two months old.... She took him from his 
nursery one wet night. There had been a pain¬ 
ful scene with Sir Piers a few hours before. All 
we knew was that she took the up-train at nine 
o'clock, leaving behind her a note stating that 
her purpose was to remove herself and her infant 
for ever. A wild—a particularly unbalanced let¬ 
ter. ...” 

The speaker let his voice fall into a melancholy 
music and shook his head sadly. 

“You were away, Ventris, if my memory 
holds?” 

“I was in Paris. It was the year of the great 
sale.... We were fortunate in securing for 
Shank an incomparable Horae from the collec¬ 
tion of Philip of Cleves, with a jewelled reliquary 
set into the binding. To obtain it I disposed of 



THE WHITE FUR RUG 


59 


two Homilies from the library of St. Augustine 
and a Psalter, once the property of Melissande, 
Countess of Arizon—no doubt you remem¬ 
ber— ?" 

Sir John made a movement of impatience. “I 
know nothing of such things.... But Lady 
Monkton—?" 

“Was found in the Thames two days later. 
The child was not found." 

“You tried to trace Lady Monkton’s move¬ 
ments, I assume?" 

“Naturally, we tried but without success. She 
had been seen to take a ’bus—very cunningly, she 
did not take a cab. All trace of her was lost. We 
can only suppose that she committed suicide that 
same night or early morning." 

“And you yourself believed in the child’s 
death—or did you suspect anything?" 

“I believed it—how should I do other than be¬ 
lieve it? Monkton believed it: when I hastened 
home to him, he showed me the letter—there was 
no question in his mind, none in mine. None un¬ 
til two months ago." 

“And then?" 

For the first time, the narrator shifted his 
position slightly, so that he should include the 
younger man—who sat stiffly, eyes fixed upon 
him—in his audience. The room was quiet in the 
afternoon sunlight. In the window, a little cloud 
moved across the blue sky: Richard kept his eye 
on it. He was oddly conscious of struggling to 
decide which feeling in him was uppermost, ex¬ 
cited incredulity or a sort of anger.... 


60 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“A fortnight or more after Sir Piers’ death,” 
began Mr. Ventris with impressive clarity and 
directness, “some letters were brought to me. 
They were letters written by a woman who had 
been Lucy Monkton’s personal maid, to hen 
young niece. The niece had respected the con¬ 
fidence reposed in her—but she kept the letters. 
During the intervening twenty years, she married 
and then died. The letters fell into her husband’s 
hands; it was the husband who brought them to 
me. He was an attorney’s clerk in a small town 
and had enough education to guess what they 
meant.” 

“His object, of course, was money?” 

“His object was frankly money. He would, of 
course, have taken them to Lycett Monkton, but 
Lycett Monkton was out of the country.” 

Noticing the speaker did not say, “Sir Lycett,” 
Sir John could not but be impressed. He waved 
Ventris to proceed. 

“Before telling you the contents of these let¬ 
ters, I should like to ask our young friend some 
questions?” 

“By all means.” 

Mr. Ventris turned to Richard and asked: 

“When and where were you born?” 

Dick replied with slow reluctance: “August’ 
18th, 1896; I think it was near London.” 

“Your parents were travellers or residents?” 

“Dad told me they went immediately abroad 
on their marriage, intending to stay for some 
time. They lived in Italy and in France and 
finally in England; on the whole, for nearly 
eighteen months.” 


THE WHITE FUR RUG 


61 


“When did they return to the States ?” 

“About the first of December, I think. Dad 
said I was home for my first Christmas.” 

“But surely you know more definitely than 
this Sir John struck in. 

“No, no! It must seem strange, but I know 
little! Who was to tell me? You see Dad nev¬ 
er talked about it—and my mother died when I 
was six years old. I was too little to ask her.” 
He drew a breath, and suddenly began to pour 
forth his protest with a vehemence which some¬ 
how surprised Mr. Ventris. There was intensity 
in the face and voice and in the brief, stiff ges¬ 
tures, which gave an unexpected vigor to the 
whole figure—“But surely that means nothing! 
The whole thing is too utterly wild....you 
didn’t know my parents.... And I look exactly 
like Dad... .everyone knows.... you said so 
yourself!” 

The other slipped his hand into his pocket and 
drew forth a morocco case which he opened and 
handed to Sir John Flippin. 

“Will you look at Sir Piers’ portrait,” he said, 
“and then at this young man?” 

Dick sprang up to look over Sir John’s should¬ 
er. The miniature was of a man in his forties, 
.wearing uniform. The face,—even while it was 
utterly unlike that of the one he called father— 
yet undoubtedly the shape of it, the angle at 
which the thin-bridged nose jutted from between 
the peaked eyebrows, bore marked resemblance 
to his own. 

“A regular Monkton—surely?” Mr. Ventris 


62 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


was saying*, while Sir John under his breath 
seemed to be humming a tune. 

“Interesting, but not convincing, Ventris.” 

“You think not. Sir John? Then look, I beg 
of you”—and Ventris’ voice rose a note—“look 
at his gesture now, as he stands there! How 
many times have you seen Sir Piers wave his left 
hand just in that way—when he was absorbed 
in anything—exactly as that boy is doing now!” 

“I don’t recall ever having noticed,” Sir John 
said. 

“I have; many, many times.” The other spoke 
with absolute conviction, and it was this accent 
of conviction which Dick answered. 

“There will have to be more than likeness to 
make me believe such a fairy-tale, sir. You 

didn’t know Dad as I did_ He was incapable 

of passing me off as his child, if I were not—in¬ 
capable of it.” 

Mr. Ventris very lightly shrugged. “It is well 
you are not easily carried away, my lad, very 
well. I did not adduce this likeness as my only 
proof—but surely it has weight?” He looked 
across at Sir John. 

“Some weight; if added to strong legal evi¬ 
dence: none without.” 

“Of course; of course.” Mr. Ventris dropped 
into a meditative note. “Let me get back to the 
facts.... I will begin with my own knowledge. 
I made the acquaintance of a Mr. Richard Monk- 
ton of Philadelphia in the October of 1896. We 
met at Sotheby’s: the name and family likeness 
(though by no means so marked as in this youth) 


THE WHITE FUR RUG 


63 


first attracted my attention. He was very charm¬ 
ing and we soon discovered common tastes. Mr. 
Monkton admired a Virgil in my collection, 
which he eventually bought from me. We talked 
much and corresponded. Of course our friend¬ 
ship lay wholly in one groove. I never met my 
friend’s wife, though he often spoke of her, as 
Americans do.... I ought to add that he did 
not speak of any child.” 

Sir John inflexibly answered in the pause. 
“You could not trust your memory after twenty- 
odd years.” 

“I think I could_ To my knowledge, Mr. 

Monkton said nothing of a son. Naturally he 
wished to see Shank, and I was delighted to 
please a fellow connoisseur. Sir Piers found my 
American friend congenial and invited him for 
the week-end. In the light of after events it 
would seem that during his visit the lack of har¬ 
mony between Sir Piers and Lady Monkton was 
all too plain. There were unbecoming scenes. 
I am inclined to think that she made some appeal 
to this tender-hearted guest. You are very pa¬ 
tient with the sex in your country.” 

“Was he beastly to his wife—this Sir Piers?” 
Thus Dick roughly broke in and Charles Ventris 
looked shocked. 

“Sir Piers beastly? Never. The poor young 
lady was not strong in the head—her death 
proves it....” 

“She was jealous, I remember,” Sir John of¬ 
fered and Mr. Ventris nodded. 

“Jealous of Shank, jealous of my friendship for 


64 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

her husband; jealous (without the faintest cause,' 
believe me) of the present Lady Monkton. But 
their chief dissension was money. She resented 
anything being spent for the collections—she 
took no interest in Shank. She had an empty 
mind and an unhappy nature. I was very sorry 
for her.” 

For the way he said this, Dick liked him better. 
His voice paid caressing tribute to her forlorn 
little ladyship and then resumed more briskly: 

“After the boy’s birth in September, she must 
have become mentally affected. She talked wild¬ 
ly; had delusions of persecution; hinted of poi¬ 
soning for her child and herself. It was then 
that Sir Piers was obliged to dismiss her person¬ 
al maid, a woman named Mary McNeil, (who, 
her physician thought, unduly excited her mis¬ 
tress) and substitute a calmer attendant.... 
But that made matters worse and tragedy result¬ 
ed. It was four days after Mr. Richard Monk- 
ton’s week-end at Shank that the poor lady’s 
mind must finally have given way, and it 
seemed that this dismissal of McNeil formed a 
definite grievance on which she brooded.” 

The narrator paused an instant, giving Sir 
John an opportunity. 

“You have admirably recalled the past situa¬ 
tion, Ventris; but my deplorably legal habit of 
mind cannot be quite satisfied. I do not wish to 
cross-examine but it may benefit you in future 
if I put in a word here. There are two points of 
main importance. The first is the contents of 
McNeil’s letters and the evidence they contain. 


THE WHITE FUR RUG 


65 


The second is: are they McNeil's letters? I 
should wish to have that point settled first.” 

It struck Richard that this speech annoyed 
Mr. Ventris, whose brilliant gaze clouded, but he 
replied immediately: 

“I shall try to satisfy you. The letters are 
three in number, dated October 28, 30 and No¬ 
vember 6, 1896. The man Coles found them 
among his wife’s effects. The fact that she had 
kept them so carefully aroused his curiosity... 

“Is he a man of probity: well spoken of ?”* 

“He does not impress me one way or the other. 
His behavior in the matter so far has been 
proper,” Ventris patiently answered. 

“Had his wife given no hint?” 

“None he could remember. He met her first 
some years after the date on these letters and 
married her in 1907.” 

“What was his own knowledge of the writer?” 

“He never saw the writer. As stated in the 
last of these letters, Mary McNeil must shortly 
afterwards have married and left England. The 
Coles, had evidently lost all trace of her. Coles 
did not even know her present name.” 

“H’m_that is unfortunate. The letters 

therefore are totally unsupported?” 

“It depends,” said the other with spirit. “At 
Shank there are plenty of specimens of McNeil’s 
handwriting—she wrote much for her mistress. 
The place also from which they are written is 
mentioned as her address in the servants’ record 
at Shank.” 

“At the time of Lady Monkton’s suicide, did 


66 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


nobody think of Mary McNeil as likely to throw 
some light on the tragedy ?” 

“No one until a week after I returned from 
France, when I suggested doing so. Sir Piers 
sent someone to her address, who reported that 
it was a decent house in West Kensington, where 
McNeil had boarded for perhaps a month. She 
had left a few days before to get married and 
they could tell us no more.” 

“Surely you advertised?” 

“No: Lady Monkton was dead. Sir Piers was 
in no condition of mind to desire further noto¬ 
riety. With the discovery of his wife’s body came 
a wish for silence and oblivion.” 

“But the heir, man, the heir!” 

“Sir Piers never doubted for an instant that 
the mother had carried out her purpose.” 

The sunlight had left the house-tops. Long 
shadows crept into the room. Mr. Ventris had 
taken some folded papers from his wallet and 
held them in his hand; he waited, rather obvious¬ 
ly patient, while Flippin considered then began 
to speak: 

“These three letters are in my safe at home, 
where you shall examine them. I have here a 
precis of their information, drawn up rather has¬ 
tily today, for the purpose of this interview. The 
first—” 

“One moment- Have you shown these let¬ 

ters to Scrope?” 

“To no one, Sir John. I thought best to await 
Richard Monkton’s arrival before mentioning 
the matter.” 


THE WHITE FUR RUG 


67 


“Quite so. In this first letter then—?” 

“The first is short, dated the 28th. The writer 
says she is upset because of the dreadful events 
of the previous night. ‘My poor lady/ she puts 
it, appeared with the child at midnight in a state 
of excitement so violent that McNeil was dread¬ 
fully distressed. ‘Luckily I got her in quietly/ 
she writes, and later, ‘Thank God, at least no¬ 
body knew/ She describes Lady Monkton as in¬ 
sisting that McNeil should take her child to an 
American friend who, she said, would carry it 
far off across the sea and away from its enemies. 
McNeil seems to have promised anything in or¬ 
der to quiet the distracted mother. From the 
tone of her letter I do not think that at first she 
regarded the promise as serious. When the let¬ 
ter ends, she has just discovered that Lady 
Monkton is not in the room where she had per¬ 
suaded her to go and lie down.” 

Mr. Ventris took up another sheet of paper. 
“The second letter is two days later. Lady 
Monkton’s body had just been taken from the 
Thames. All of the anxiety which McNeil felt 
for her lady, was now transferred to herself. She 
shows that terror of police investigation which 
one might expect in a person of her class. So far 
she had managed to conceal the infant by carry¬ 
ing him about with her most of the day. Now 
she was afraid to keep him longer and she was 
afraid to give him up.” 

Mr. Ventris took up the last sheet. “The let¬ 
ter of November 6 is short. McNeil says that she 
is to be married that day: they are to leave Eng- 


68 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


land immediately. She gives the recipient an af¬ 
fectionate good-bye. She adds these words: 
‘Maybe I did wrong: but what could I do? I 
promised her poor ladyship faithfully. She was 
very sweet and kind, the American young lady. 
Thank God, her husband was away—he might 
have made trouble... .but her eyes were full of 
tears when I put Master Baby into her arms, 
wrapped in that little white fur rug, with the 
wadded blue lining—’ ” 

The narrator broke off abruptly. In the heavy 
silence, Dick had got unsteadily to his feet and 
then sat down again. 

“The rug—” he said, catching at broken 
phrases—“that white fur rug—the torn blue silk 
lining.... Mother showed it to me that snowy 
day—that snowy day— She said: T wrapped 
you in it against the cold—on the voyage, my 
dear—when you were a little baby—’ ” 

With dilated eyes, he stared from one man to 
the other, then covered his face to shut out Sir 
John’s concentrated frown and Charles Ventris’ 
smile of triumph—to shut it all out. He felt sud¬ 
denly very ill. 


CHAPTER VII 

GESTURES OF THE WHITE PEACOCK 

L ADY MONKTON sat in the sunshine on the 
terrace at Shank. Before her eyes th^ south 
front of the Great House, the Tudor front', rose 
toward the sky with an almost insolent mag¬ 
nificence. On her left hand spread the orangery, 
the hall of state, the courtyard, whose Triton, 
rising from a central fountain, blew forever in 
silence his wreathed horn.... On her right 
hand, the library wing and inner buildings 
merged into a confused mass, from which the sil¬ 
houette of the chapel defined itself. Behind her 
stretched the gardens, gallant and gay, enclosed 
in walls pierced at intervals with gates of iron 
tracery, flanked with decorative ovals. All this 
was heaped splendidly before her, forming a 
broken outline of parapets, towers, and twisted 
chimneys; a congeries of confused and ancient 
erections resembling a medieval village, the 
whole dominated from afar by the frowning bulk 
of a huge tithe barn. 

Often as Lady Monktori gazed on this, the 
wonder was renewed for her. Whether she saw 
69 


70 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


it as now, radiant in afternoon light, heraldic 
unicorns perpetually rearing on the gables, their 
horns crossed against the zenith; or in early 
morning looked on the quadrangle, studious and 
stately, with mullioned windows and garlanded 
stonework; or saw it at night, mysterious in 
gleaming moonlight—all enchanted, and breath¬ 
ing triumphant emanations of past glory—the 
marvel held her... .that it should stand thus as 
it had stood, century after century.... 

Shank had been both a great ecclesiastical pal¬ 
ace and the palace of a great noble. For over 
four hundred years, nothing, inside or out, had 
been changed. Since James I., most of the build¬ 
ing had been preserved as a museum; housing 
the collections of paintings, books, furniture, 
china, and silver; to which each successive owner 
had added, at the cost almost of ruin. Thus it 
became a treasure-house such as no king could 
rival; the unique pride of its lords, who kept a 
tradition of self-sacrifice for its preservation. 
No splendid wastrel ever fed his vices from its 
hoards. Whatever their faults, to add painting 
to painting, rarity to rarity, had been the Monk- 
ton passion, for whose sake they gladly resigned 
all other passions of men. Thus they lived, re¬ 
tired, secure. Other nobles sought preferment, 
power, court-influence — the Monktons kept 
away from London and saw no sovereign unless 
to act as his host. And as for the other things 
which men hold dear, the Monkton motto was, 
“Shank, not rank.” 

Henry VIII. had presented the original foun- 


THE WHITE PEACOCK 


71 


dation, with its rich Abbey standing in fat, peace¬ 
ful fields, to a lady he favored but on whom he 
had scarce time to confer temporary matrimonial 
honors. Her son, Fitzhenry Monkton, was an 
enthusiastic antiquarian, the friend of Essex and 
of Southhampton. He also loved pageant and 
play and had the company down from the Globe 
more than once to perform in his Great Hall. Of 
this he had left record in his own hand, and vol¬ 
umes have been written on that special entry, 
wherein he tells of his pleasure in the conversa¬ 
tion of “good Master Burbage and his excellent 
partner and playwright: a man,” he adds, “of the 
honourablest parts and pregnant wit, but private 
rather than full.” 

It was this Monkton’s son who refused a peer¬ 
age, believing that safety lay in obscutity. So 
indeed it proved: and his descendants continued 
adroitly to shift their political sympathies in or¬ 
der to safeguard their collections. Puritan can¬ 
non never pointed at Shank; no Monkton came 
who permitted his own wants to cause the loss of 
as much as a single chair. Thus generation after 
generation added to their hoards of art, as an In¬ 
dian rajah adds gem to gem in his treasure vault. 

And what hoards were these! The paintings 
alone were irreplaceable. Shank housed nine 
Velasquez, as many Holbeins, a remarkable 
group by Philippe de Champagne, over a dozen 
of the finest Reynolds, and a picture called the 
“Great,” beside many lesser by Hoppner. The 
tapestries had belonged to Cosimo de Medici. 
Tne porcelain had never been duplicated and 


72 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

never could be; it filled the vitrines in three nine¬ 
ty-foot galleries. On the wall of the small draw¬ 
ing room hung Leonardo’s Vierge it la Carafe, 
for centuries missing from the Vatican and now 
triumphantly enthroned at Shank. One of the 
libraries held no book printed later than 1690. 
The Manuscript Room was the shrine of the fa¬ 
mous Monkton Missal and of the Treyze Sainc- 
tes Hystoires du Jean de Braq. The collection 
of small, intimate objects connected with the 
past was not yet catalogued, though known to be 
exceptionally rich. Walking through the State 
Apartments taught one the meaning of the 
phrase ‘Pomps and Vanities.’ In the King’s 
Bedchamber, where none had slept since James I 
laid his ungainly person beneath the embroidered 
velvets, there were tables, lamps, firedogs, 
sconces, ewers, basins,—a complete service of 
wroughten silver. 

All these things were housed in a mansion 
whose beauty seemed immortal, bidding defiance 
to Time itself. Preserved by the devotion of its 
possessors, devotion enduring till it culminated 
in the veritable passion of the late owner, its 
towers rose superbly safe—for even the Great 
War had passed them by. 

Spared them for what? This was the dread 
at the heart of the woman sitting there, the 
guardian of all that beauty, for Lady Monkton 
knew that Shank was at that moment menaced 
by a danger greater than any from German 
bombs. 

She turned her head to look into the garden. 


THE WHITE PEACOCK 


73 


At her feet the turf was like thick fur, but fur 
with the color of an emerald. It stretched to the 
bowling green, between tulip trees and circular 
sycamores, to where the ancient limes were be¬ 
ginning to murmur with bees.... In a few days 
more, climbing roses would be staining the tow¬ 
ers with red. Along the wall above the hedge 
wandered a white peacock, like some delicate 
ghost- Beyond, the garden bloom was be¬ 

ginning, its tone still faint and pure—not yet 
heightened to the full diapason of midsummer. 
May lingered in the air and smiled upon Shank. 
Through the Park the deer were still scattered, 
not yet seeking the shade of great oaks and 
beeches. Lady Monkton watched the stag 
proudly stepping across the grass; and, as they 
followed him, her eyes grew dreamy.... Very 
spacious the buildings seemed, and very silent; 
all human sounds were lost in them. Denise had 
sat in the warm sun for more than an hour—she 
was thinking deeply. A woman of marked, if sub¬ 
tle beauty, she faintly resembled the portraits of 
Mary, Queen of Scots, possibly heightening that 
resemblance by her widow’s dress of white 
crepe. She was slender, and her intricately ar¬ 
ranged hair was as white as her dress. Her nar¬ 
row eyes seldom smiled. Her face was far 
younger than her hair; it was reserved: and these 
qualities lent her distinction in the eyes of her 
w^orld. She seemed to have lived so much wdth 
the past that she was not like anyone else: seeing 
her, one thought instinctively of beautiful van¬ 
ished things. Lady Monkton had knowdedge, 


74 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


but not cleverness, nor did she usually talk very 
much. The shadow of a lisp in her speech sug¬ 
gested a foreign accent.... 

While she was still watching the stag, Lady 
Monkton became aware that Charles Ventris was 
coming toward her across the terrace. She held 
out her hands to him. 

“Charles ?” The word was both question and 
entreaty, but he did not hasten to reply. He 
raised her hand to his lips with an old-world 
deference and loosened himself from his long 
motor-coat. Then he shook his head. 

“No word of Mary McNeil ?” 

“None. The woman seems to have vanished 
into thin air. I can find no trace of her after that 
autumn. I suppose she must be dead.” 

“Would that—her death, I mean—help or hin¬ 
der?” 

He looked doubtfully_and then in his turn 

questioned; 

“What a heavenly day!.... And Richard, 
how is he?” 

“Better—he gains every hour. But he is very 
reserved, very quiet, Charles. I think he is be¬ 
wildered.” 

“No doubt. Who would not be? How does he 
strike you?” 

“As less unformed—as more of a character, I 
should say, than I thought: a charming lad, and 
sensitive to beauty.” 

“Does he appreciate—all that?” and Mr. Ven¬ 
tris gave a gesture in the direction of the house. 

“Yes, I think he does—more at least than I ex- 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 


75 


pected—naturally it overwhelms him, but with 
love, though not such a love as yours and mine.” 

He turned to follow her gaze as it rested on 
the fastidious gestures of the white peacock, and 
then they both watched the windows of the 
Great Hall, glowing response in a fervor of colors 
to the entering sun rays. His light touch fell 
sympathetically upon her wrist. 

“Such love will come with greater knowledge,” 
he said and paused. When he spoke again it was 
upon a harsh note. “Did I ever tell you of my 
last encounter with Lycett Monkton? It was at 
the Club, two years ago. Piers had just had that 
first slight stroke, and of course he knew it. He 
stopped in front of me, looking down on me from 
his great height, with such an insolence! ‘So I 
hear he's very bad?' said he. ‘Do you out of a 
job, I daresay. I warn you, if the stuff ever 
comes my way, the auction-rooms will be busy! 
Good money there at Shank, and I mean to have 
it—no sentimentality about me.... The junk 
has been there too long—let the Yankees enjoy 
it and let me enjoy the dollars!'” She gave a 
murmur of horror: 

“He would not dare!” 

“Those were his words, and he said the same 
to others.” 

“But the law will protect—the entail—?” 

“The law could not protect everything—there 
are ways and ways, and he will come to learn 
them. It's the beginning of the end. And now 
comes this hope.... Yet if I could only learn, 
Denise, that the Antarctic had ended that man!” 


76 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“Yet if you are not certain about Richard—?” 

“I am certain—of course I am certain. That 
poor little fool, it is just the sort of thing she 
would have done. But these legal gentry are 
eternally suspicious—as if the letters were not 
plain proof enough!” 

“You talked to Scrope yesterday? Wasn’t he 
impressed?” she enquired with her faint lisp. 

“Naturally. But he was strong about my find¬ 
ing McNeil if possible. I pointed out that her 
disappearance was an additional proof. Why 
should she disappear unless she had done wrong? 
He was struck, as I could see, but wishes time, ad¬ 
vertising, heaven knows what!” 

“The Times printed an account of the voyage 
of the relief-ship to the Antarctic,” Lady Monk- 
ton said. “It mentioned the claimant and stated 
that Monkton would hasten back as soon as 
found.” 

“Last week I had a talk with Sir Ambrose 
Fitchett about that whole Maitland-Monkton 
Expedition,” he told her. “Much was against 
them in his opinion: equipment, season of year, 
poor leadership. Maitland, he described as a rash 
fool, and Monkton as unpopular with the 
men.... Of course the uncertainty of his where¬ 
abouts, of his life, of the succession, make the 
lawyers more willing to hear Richard’s claim. 
That is human nature.” 

A breath of May breeze drew across the ter¬ 
race scattering the flame-tinted blossoms. Lady 
Monkton drew; her white lace scarf over her 
shoulders. 


THE WHITE PEACOCK 


17 


“Sir John Flippin is coming to luncheon,” she 
remarked. “It's odd Richard should have taken 
such a fancy to him. He is a blunt man.” 

Mr. Ventris's little shrug disposed of Sir John 
Flippin. “His bluntness carries weight with 
many people, Denise. So far he has been slow to 
convince, but I think when once he has talked 
with Coles—” 

“McNeil's nephew, you mean? I thought you 
had hoped—” 

“I have been forced to bring him forward, that 
is true,” he was evidently reluctant to discuss 
Coles and hastened on: “Have you any other 
news?” 

“Miss Lang has some letters, accounts and so 
on. The American lady—the one who is staying 
with the vicar, sketches in the Park every day. 
I suppose that is all right?” 

“No doubt. She is a quiet-looking person. I 
noticed her as I drove up. Have you had many 
visitors?” 

“Only the usual Thursday group. Richard 
went round with them once, for practice.” 

“A good idea. He shall continue to do so while 
I am away.” 

“Charles, must you go?” The note of trouble 
in her voice did not escape Mr. Ventris. Up to 
now they had been sitting side by side in com¬ 
radely, easy talk as they were wont, both gazing 
at the garden scene. But at her words he turned 
his black eyes full upon hers. 

“Yes: I must go—and within a week or so. 
There is much to be seen to and the autumn sales 


78 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

in Paris this year are most important. More¬ 
over, I must dispose of some items myself I fear. 
All this affair of Richard takes money, my dear 
Denise.” 

Her glance fell away from his and her white 
eyelids hid it. She folded her hands together, say¬ 
ing nothing. Her companion, settling himself 
more at ease in his chair, let his practised and 
loving gaze travel over the building in front of 
him, linger upon the escutcheons, the rampant 
unicorns, the twist of the chimney carvings, the 
ornamental lead-pipe heads at the eaves, the glit¬ 
tering pattern of the window-panes. Suddenly 
he straightened: 

“Look, Denise! that wreath—the one to the 
right of the urn, do you see? It has loosened and 
may fall. Granger must go to the roof at once. 
I would not have that carving broken for a hun¬ 
dred pounds. Where is Miss Lang?” 

His voice, his manner, were animated and anx¬ 
ious. Lady Monkton, too, arose, and both of 
them looked eagerly for any probable damage. 
They were still discussing this when the secre¬ 
tary just mentioned made her appearance on the 
terrace from the house, together with Mr. Rich¬ 
ard Monkton, who had innocently accompanied 
her thither, not a little to her embarrassment. 

Miss Lang was a thin, erect, light-footed 
young woman, with a great deal of black, black 
hair. Her grey-green eyes were as clear, and 
nearly as deep, as the sea. She had a wide, capa¬ 
ble mouth and pointed hands, and, but for the re¬ 
serve in her face, she looked more Irish than 


THE WHITE PEACOCK 


79 


Scots. There was also, somehow and some¬ 
where, a dash of the Latin about her; she moved 
with grace and pliant quickness. One felt that 
the smile, which she almost never showed, would 
be attractive; that, should she ever permit her¬ 
self to become unprofessional, her personality 
might be picturesque. At the moment, that was 
the last thing she thought about. Miss Lang’s 
father had been a distinguished historian, and 
her chief preoccupation, aside from her work, 
was to do his memory credit. Therefore she was 
exceedingly serious, and her manner was imper¬ 
sonal and businesslike in the highest degree. She 
knew nothing about Americans and tended to 
distrust anyone who succeeded in making her 
laugh. Thus she was uncomfortable at the con¬ 
straint forced upon her by Mr. Monkton’s inno¬ 
cently joining her in a manner which she was 
well aware, Lady Monkton would hardly fail to 
notice and disapprove. The companionship had 
been none of Jean’s seeking, and she felt that a 
guest in the house ought to have known better. 

Luckily, her employer was too much absorbed 
in the discovery of the loosened stonework to no¬ 
tice anything except that the invaluable Miss 
Lang was there when needed. She was instruct¬ 
ed; her opinion asked, and details necessary to 
the restoration settled, in an animated discus¬ 
sion, during which Richard could only stand by 
to listen with his usual feeling of helpless igno¬ 
rance. 


* 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBA 

T HAT beginning of a new world for Dick 
dated from the day when, still a little weak 
and shaky, he went down to Shank with Mr. 
Ventris in the motor. Like the rise of a curtain 
on some great opera or Shakesperean play, this 
beginning wore a glow of vague splendor, the 
shape and color of a dream. Even now he could 
not grasp it; he still awoke with the dawn in an 
almost intolerable bewilderment; the gorgeous 
future he stared into seemed shot with strange 
flashes of pain. That those around him under¬ 
stood this disquiet, sympathized with it, in a 
sense made life no easier; there were moments 
when Dick became hot at the memory of his own 
misjudgments. 

He had spent ten days in a nursing home; ex¬ 
hausted, the doctor said, from shock and excite¬ 
ment. During that period, Sir John Flippin 
came to see him several times: but Charles Ven¬ 
tris came every day. He made these visits nat¬ 
urally, easily, sweetly: coming softly in to sit by 
the young man’s bed as if he liked to be there. 
80 


LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBIA 


81 


He took Dick’s congeniality of taste for granted. 
Sometimes he carried a bunch of fresh violets or 
daffodils: sometimes he took from his pocket 
with a mysterious smile, an intricately lacquered 
shrine, a little, serene ivory carving or a print, or 
a minuscule manuscript and laid them before 
Dick to give him pleasure. Once he brought 
Dick’s father’s Virgil and insisted on making it 
a present. The boy came to long for these visits; 
his imagination played over the figure of this 
friend, with his pale, delicate face, his black eyes 
with flames in them, his caressing voice. Rich¬ 
ard never quite felt that he understood this diff¬ 
erent elder man, but he loved him. They soon 
became “Diccon” and “M. Charles” to one an¬ 
other. 

All the while Dick was in the nursing home, 
the story of his strange claim began to run 
through the London world as fire in grass. That 
was a world which knew what Shank stood for: 
which remembered many claimants and many 
claims in the past. M. Charles was careful to 
talk to him about all this as little as possible; 
but M. Charles, when he went out to dine every 
evening—for it was now mid-season and he was a 
famous personage in his way—M. Charles gave a 
very skilful and sympathetic portrait of his young 
protege. It became well known everywhere who 
this young man was supposed to be and that he 
was handsome and engaging, had done manfully 
in the Argonne and showed evidence of possess¬ 
ing most of the Monkton tastes. Such a contrast 
to that shocking oaf, Lycett Monkton, who had 


82 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


showed no proper sense of his position or respon¬ 
sibilities! When M. Charles dined out, he was 
frank in saying that to his mind the claimant was 
as good as a baronet already; although Sir John 
Flippin pursed a doubtful mouth, and there ex¬ 
isted no force in the United Kingdom which 
could hasten the formalities in the hands of the 
family solicitor, Mr. Ingleby Scrope. Antiqua¬ 
ries and fellow-collectors told M. Charles their 
wish that the claimant would devote himself to 
completing the catalogue raisonne which had 
been interrupted by the death of Sir Piers: dukes 
and duchesses expressed their hope that he 
would marry one of those enormous new fortunes, 
which alone justify themselves, in ducal eyes, by 
such a consecration. More than one tall young 
lady with wheat-colored hair and dangling jade 
earrings went to her bed hoping that the future 
owner of Shank might be fancy-free.... Incau¬ 
tious people, anxious to be diverted, made ad¬ 
vances to the claimant; invitations began to come 

to the nursing-home-cards to be left there. 

Richard heard vaguely about these things but 
they were not shown to him. The doctor told the 
nurse that all this might excite her patient and 
that his mail should be opened by Charles Ven- 
tris. In reality, it was Charles Ventris who had 
told the doctor this, but so skilfully that the med¬ 
ical man thought he had arrived at the decision 
of his own motion. Two or three American let¬ 
ters came during this time, were glanced through 
and laid aside. If Richard asked for news of any 
particular correspondent, the letter was produced 


LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBIA 


S3 


at once—after his permission to see if it was that 
correspondent had been scrupulously asked and 
accorded. But if he did not ask for it, the letter 
after awhile quietly disappeared and nothing 
was said. In Mr. Ventris’s mind, all threads 
with the past and with the States were better 
broken.... 

The day Richard went down in the car was en¬ 
chanting: all the way his guide discoursed, char¬ 
acteristically, about the country-side, its history 
and its traditions. 

“The Marquis of Granby public-house? Yes, 
there are dozens of ’em—but I like to think of 
Mr. Weller... .capital, capital! That mansion? 
Oh my dear boy, it’s full of the most dreadful 
stuff—most of it spurious.... The fella—I be¬ 
lieve he was a butcher, bought house and con¬ 
tents together.... There were originally some 
good things—a few fine bindings—but he would 
put central heating in his library, and that was 
that—•” 

The scorn caused Dick to venture—“But per¬ 
haps it was cold—and he liked to be comforta¬ 
ble....?” 

“What if he did?” the other’s tone icily 
breathed the probable atmosphere of the par¬ 
venu’s purchase. “Why shouldn’t a butcher 
named McTavish be uncomfortable, so long as 
the books were preserved?” 

Dick felt that he must laugh and did so: but 
Charles Ventris was absolutely serious. 

“Mean it? Of course I mean it. You too will 
feel that way when you see Shank. You and I 
do not count—we go—Shank stands.” 



84 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


The vibration of his tone had a startling inten¬ 
sity. Dick recalled what Sir John Flippin had 
said that perhaps M. Charles was a bit of a mono¬ 
maniac. A week later he was telling himself 
that M. Charles and Lady Monkton and himself 
were all by way of being monomaniacs together. 

When he first saw Lady Monkton she was 
standing under the Hoppner at the end of the 
small drawing-room with the fretted ceiling. 
Dazed with the stately grandeur, he had crossed 
the quadrangle, a piece of Oxford, passed through 
halls and galleries... .to where she waited, the 
incarnation of the spirit of the house. Her al¬ 
mond-shaped eyes had greeted him with a soft 
light: her hair might well have been the pow¬ 
dered coiffure of the past. Her smile was subtle, 
slow and enigmatic. Like all Shank, she was not 
merely beautiful, but strange, too, and pictur¬ 
esque, and reserved, hiding much under an her¬ 
aldic front. One found her fascinating but puz¬ 
zling. Who and what was she, Denise Monkton? 
No: Dick did not pretend to solve her. Her wel¬ 
come was cordial, but she seemed to look beyond 
him. She looked at Shank. 

For this reticent absorption, he was in one way 
grateful. By tacit agreement he came merely as 
an American cousin on a visit, while any possible 
change which might affect his future was avoid¬ 
ed in conversation. The servants had been 
warned, and thus he might remain himself for 
as long as he would, though that in the nature 
of things could not be long. For how could one 
be oneself, who, on awaking, looked from a mul- 


LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBIA 


85 


lioned window on that incredible turf, the carpet 
for a yew fantastically clipped? Or when, sitting 
at table, one beheld through an open door vista 
on vista, carven, rich, colored? Or when, at his 
simplest remark, Lady Monkton shot him one of 
her side-long glances, while M. Charles seemed 
incomprehensively gratified? Or when, crossing 
the gallery, he caught the eyes of Sir Piers Monk- 
ton’s portrait bent on him questioningly ? His 
days needs must pass uneasily, not only in that 
dreamlike setting, but companioned by figures 
whose vital difference from himself made them 
cloudy as the figures in a dream. Sometimes he 
wondered what they thought of him. He need 
not have worried; they were astute, seeing him 
for what he was, sensitive, with an exotic and 
scrupulous pride, and showing an unusual com¬ 
bination of romantic imagination and straight¬ 
forward simplicity. Notwithstanding their back¬ 
ground, both of them were far more literal¬ 
minded than their guest. They beheld Shank 
with passion, but as a material reality, while Dick 
saw a “huge cloudy symbol of a high romance.” 

These days found him silent, absorbed. He 
could not talk; he must watch and dream; and he 
must shut out of his mind that insistent picture 
of Clinton street and the face of that father—who 
knew? Ah, no! how could he have known? 
Denise was right in saying Dick was bewildered, 
and these new friends, too, bewildered him, 
Gradually one or two impressions emerged and 
stayed. He learned that he must not look for the 
clear definite outlines of character to which he 


86 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


was accustomed, as to the clear definite sunshine 
of his own country. In this older world were 
gradations, nuances, unknown tones and shad¬ 
ings. Who could help loving M. Charles, who 
had been so good to him, who had not even 
laughed at him for his folly when they first met? 
Yet he could see, too, that M. Charles was a 
thought over-civilized, and that his great learn¬ 
ing and his unique passion had warped him from 
warm human feeling. At home, life was shallow¬ 
er; in general one was able to see clear to the bot¬ 
tom of most things; here, the atmosphere seemed 
at moments a little turbid. One must adapt one¬ 
self, and this was not so easy to do when one was 
truly bedazzled by the gorgeousness of Shank. 

When Dick was “shown the house,” it was 
with a warning that he could not come to know it 
in a day, that the collections would take years of 
study. At first, the thing struck him as a series 
of impressions of color, color sometimes vehe¬ 
ment and shrill, more often tender and faded into 
the undertones of the past. He was led across 
green and grey court yards, up painted stair¬ 
cases in black oak, cream and tinted marbles, 
frescoes in salmon and mauve and blue, through 
galleries hung with rose-red and moss-green 
Italian velvets with bronze fringes, where scar¬ 
let patches from stained glass lay on the floor, 
and florid Renaissance chimney-pieces gleamed 
with onyx inlays and silver firedogs. The pan¬ 
elled ballroom upheld a frieze of heraldic beasts 
above a wall where the pictures hung on rose 
and white brocades. Blue-green tapestries hung 


LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBIA 


87 


the State chambers. There were vases in 
blue and nacre, in saffron deepening to 
flame, in jade and indigo and jet. There 
were porcelains pearly and opaque, or trans¬ 
lucent topaz, sapphire, and amethyst. 

The noon-tide glow in the banqueting hall was 
that of a CardinaFs robes.... A little oratory in 
a far corner sparkled crimson like a Venetian 
casket- The farthingale chairs stood in so¬ 

ber battalions; their cushions were plum-color 
or brown, leading to overtones of amber in the 
books rising behind them. Bowls of potpourri 
upon the window-sills added their delicate odors 
to the fresh and elated fragrance of May.... 
And everywhere were pictures, ancient pictures, 
famous crystals of vanished genius, rich, unbe¬ 
lievable. Their colors were untranslatable into 
Dick's language; Holbeins and Rembrandts that 
were wine-dark and sable-silvered; Reynolds, 
with brown that might be gold, and all with a 
gamut of neutral tints, of ochres and umbers and 
greys and blacks, which, with his love of paint¬ 
ing, he had never even known. 

Some of the rooms were friendly. He would 
have lingered but must be taken on; to the Oak 
Parlor where the panelling was the most ornate 
in England; to the remains of the ancient eccle¬ 
siastical wing, with its Norman doorways and 
arches. Then, up a back stair and down a long 
passage hung with arms and arras, he was con¬ 
ducted into what M. Charles had named the 
'‘Scriptorium." This was a big, bare room in the 
older wing, furnished with presses and trestle- 



88 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


tables and dedicated to care of the collections. 
Mr. Ventris showed Richard the words which 
were painted above the doorway, and translated 
them for him: 

“Benedicere digneris, Domine, hoc scriptori¬ 
um famulorum tuorum.” (Vouchsafe, O Lord, 
to bless this workroom of Thy servants.) 

“And this is our Armarius,” Mr. Ventris said, 
with his sympathetic smile, “Miss Lang.” 

A tall girl who had been absorbedly bent over 
one of the tables on their entrance, lifted her head 
and bowed slightly. She did not offer to shake 
hands, rather to Dick’s surprise. She wasn’t a 
particularly pretty girl, he decided, though he 
noticed her black hair and straight, penetrating 
look. An apron covered her, and her long, ex¬ 
pert fingers were occupied in some nice task. 
Nearby stood a carved chair with a velvet seat. 

“From the Green Gallery?” M. Charles asked, 
tapping this on the arm. Miss Lang nodded. 
“The fringe of that whole group must be seen to 
this spring. I thought best to begin without 
asking you,” she said. 

“Quite so. Anything else?” 

“The porcelains in the Mandarin Room have 
been all gone over last week and the cabinets ex¬ 
amined. There are a few cracks. I thought—” 
They were deep in consultation in an instant, 
while Lady Monkton turned to Richard with a 
smile. “You see we never let any vandal restor¬ 
ers into Shank,” she explained. “Miss Lang is 
invaluable and she has been trained under 
Charles’s own eye.” 


LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBIA 


89 


“Nothing looks really old,” Dick commented. 
He said very little, Lady Monkton thought; but 
she noticed that his eye was steady and absorbed, 
and that gratified her. 

“That is all due to Charles’s perpetual devo¬ 
tion and skill,” she told him. “Before Miss Lang 
came, he did much of the work himself.... Sir 
Piers and I helped him. There is more care than 
you would think. Wherever the public comes in, 
there is always danger.” 

“The public! Are you telling Diccon our 
troubles?” Mr. Ventris had now rejoined them; 
“Our bete noir! It’s the custom to admit them 
on Thursdays and we cannot change. But it al¬ 
ways makes us nervous, doesn’t it, Miss Lang?” 

“By the way,” the secretary observed, rising 
and coming towards them, “the same man has 
presented himself at the Guardhouse for the last 
three public days in succession. I thought you 
would like to know.” This piece of information 
produced a certain concentration in M. Charles. 
He shot a series of questions; 

“Who took him round?” 

“I did myself twice: once Dolly went.” 

“Nothing unusual in his manner? Nothing 
suspicious?” 

“Oh no, sir—not in the least. He seemed to 
take an intelligent interest.” 

“Did he ask to see anything special? Any¬ 
thing out of the way?” 

“No, sir. He made the general rounds—the 
Great Hall, the Chapel, the Galleries, the State 
Apartments.’’ 


90 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“Did he come alone ?” 

“Twice, yes. The third time he went round 
with the lady who sketches in the park; the one 
who is staying with Mr. Waverley.” 

Mr. Ventris appeared to consider. “I take it 
that the vicar vouches for her? ,, he asked, and 
Miss Lang hastened to reassure him. “In every 
way—she came highly recommended. I’ve 
talked with her quite often myself. She’s an 
American lady and very nice.” Miss Lang’s 
voice showed warmth: it was plain she liked the 
American lady. 

Over M. Charles’s face had fallen an expres¬ 
sion of watchfulness at which Dick wondered. 

“Are you afraid of thieves, sir? Surely, with 
all these people about—” 

“0/ course I am afraid!” the curator’s voice 
broke out with sudden vehemence. “There has 
never been a time when we had more cause. The 
whole world out there—” he waved an arm, “is 
full of envy, of covetousness....! Prices are 
higher than I have ever known them. The Amer¬ 
icans in the market are like wolves—they vie 
with one another in bidding things up. Not a 
day goes by without offers. Last month it was 
the “Great Hoppner”—the month before those 
Cellini pieces in the State Drawing-room—no— 
one cannot help being apprehensive....” 

“But the pictures are well known. How could 
one sell the Great Hoppner—a thief would be 
caught at once—-!” 

“What is so well known as the Mona Lisa? 
Yet it was lost for two years, and rescued by 
sheer accident.” 



LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBIA 


91 


This was incontrovertible, of course, and 
served as a sharp spur to the hobby on which M. 
Charles was now mounted. “No, if I dared I 
would shut the public out and admit no one ex¬ 
cept by signed permit/’ he pursued, striding up 
and down the room and gesticulating at them. 
“But that would be breaking old custom and 
would set the village even more against us. 
Piers and I talked of it—you remember, Denise? 
—and decided that the Thursdays must go on, 
particularly in view of that debate in the House 
when the Labor Members grumbled about the 
subsidies for keeping up these great collections 
from which the people were excluded. No: we 
cannot change—but often I do not sleep for 
thinking of the danger....” 

He looked around upon his audience and 
seemed to feel from their looks that perhaps he 
was overcharged, for he tried a lighter note and 
laid his arm caressingly around Dick’s shoulders. 
“These are some of our cares, my boy/’ he add¬ 
ed, and smiled. 

Lady Monkton observed: “You are unduly 
nervous, Charles, I think,” in a cold voice sug¬ 
gesting a rebuke; and shortly afterwards they 
left the Scriptorium. During the rest of the day, 
Mr. Ventris was easy and animated: he talked of 
joys, not fears. The next morning he returned 
to London, leaving Dick at Shank, where the 
young man rapidly recovered his physical 
strength, if not so quickly his mental poise. 

Days had passed, steeped in sunshine, days in 
which he struggled to realize this romantic beau- 


92 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


ty and adapt himself to it... .as yet all remained 
unreal... .Thursday came: and from a window 
he watched the small party of tourists cross the 
quadrangle to the main portal under the guid¬ 
ance of the efficient and erect Miss Lang. Dick 
saw them with all M. Charles’s distrust, but with 
more curiosity, and after awhile the distrust van¬ 
ished. The two school-girls; the man who arrived 
on a bicycle; the quartet from a motor, who wore 
over-elaborate clothes and shouted at one an¬ 
other their enthusiasm in high-pitched voices; 
the shortish, middle-aged lady who carried a 
sketch-book; he saw them all disappear under 
Henry VIII’s Gate and could hear their tread 
and voices passing from room to room overhead 
... .surely they seemed harmless enough? Then 
they all came down again, lingered in the quad¬ 
rangle, casting* curious glances at the young man 
in the grey suit who sat idly smoking on a bench 
nearby, then reluctantly turned to buy post-cards 
from Dolly at the Guard-house, where she, and 
her father (who rejoiced in the name of Abraham 
Gapper) made a little business of selling such 
things. 

The ladies got into their motor, which was 
waiting for them, and Dick could hear their 
shrill “Did you ever’s” and “Oh my dear, how 
perfects’s!” till their car bore them off. The 
others he saw soberly wending their way on foot 
across the park in the direction of the railway- 
station. The lady with the sketch-book fell be¬ 
hind the group, walking slowly; she was evident¬ 
ly tired, and indeed Shank was tiring. He could 


LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBIA 


93 


testify to that himself. He had never been more 
tired in his life than after the first day’s effort 
to see that plethora of exhausting richness.... 
Four acres of house is no trifle when you think 
of it! 

Mr. Ventris’s bitter speeches of scorn about 
“the public” recurred to Dick with surprise as 
unnecessary. Surely, to give pleasure to these 
harmless people by a share of this beauty did not 
seem much.... Why should one wish to keep it 
to oneself? 

All this was part of an attitude Dick could not 
share because he was opposed to it educationally, 
nationally, one had almost said racially. It was 
part of a whole group of differences which lay be¬ 
tween him and his hosts and which they expected 
time would overcome. At the moment, gratitude 
and politeness caused him to shrug them aside: 
but they lay at the bottom of his desire to find 
the Thursday tourists inoffensive if possible. 
Chancing to be alone with Miss Lang next morn¬ 
ing in the library, where she was at work, he ven¬ 
tured to enquire: 

“Did anything happen yesterday—when the 
sight-seers came? Did the mysterious man re¬ 
turn?” 

Miss Lang lifted down a vellum-covered vol¬ 
ume to blow imaginary dust from its cream and 
golden surface. “No: the man didn’t,” she an¬ 
swered him, “but the woman did. I must tell Mr. 
Ventris when I see him today.” 

“You mean the one that sketches in the Park?” 


94 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“Yes. She is one of your country people. Her 
name is Byrd, Mrs. Byrd. I like her very much.” 

She kept steadily, busily at work, examining 
each treasured manuscript and wiping it off with 
a soft cloth. Dick said: 

“You seem very busy—do you always work so 
hard?” 

“Oh this is not hard—it is just part of the reg¬ 
ular weekly routine. I always handle the Man¬ 
uscripts myself. It takes no skill, just care.” 

“But I have seen you at your skilled work too.” 

She was silent, and Dick, who was used to a 
readier response, decided that she was shy. 

“Do you live here—are you English?” he asked 
her after a pause, and the girl turned with the 
first smile he had seen upon her wide and whim¬ 
sical mouth. 

“How amusing that you should notice,” she 
commented, shutting the case and locking it. 
“No: I am living at Shank because it is Lady 
Monkton’s wish but my home is in Scotland— 
Kincardineshire. My mother and my old nurse 
are there.” 

“And you go home for the holidays?” 

“Surely. But not very often. It makes Lady 
Monkton nervous to be alone with the collec¬ 
tions.” 

“But Mr. Ventris is here all the time.... ?” 

“Not all the time. Mr. Ventris lives in Lon¬ 
don.” 

The secretary’s manner seemed to rebuke a 
curiosity which was not intended, so Richard 
changed the subject. 



LEGEND OF ST. COLUMBIA 


95 


“You spend all your time among these won¬ 
derful things—it's really a privilege.” 

“It is a great privilege.” 

“I have seen you in the Scriptorium—and 
what else do you do?” 

“I examine things for Mr. Ventris—I make 
lists and catalogues—descriptions for the arti¬ 
cles he writes sometimes—oh, I do lots of mys¬ 
terious things away up there in the Scriptori¬ 
um!” She spoke playfully, almost with gayety. 
After all, she was about his own age. 

“You must know all the secrets of Shank.” 

The smile faded out of the girl's face and was 
succeeded by a set look. She shook her head, 
and the young man continued: 

“I shall run up some day and peep through 
the key-hole,” he challenged, so freely that she 
felt surprise. 

With health, Dick was regaining his spirits. 

“Do you know the legend of St. Columba?” 
Miss Lang asked him in her composed, business¬ 
like voice, and went on to tell it him while she 
was opening the next case.... 

“St. Columba wanted to make a clandestine 
copy of Finnian’s Psalter, so he shut himself up 
at night in the church: and while he wrote with 
his right hand, the light that he needed miracu¬ 
lously radiated from his left. A curious wan¬ 
derer, attracted by the gleam, put his eye to the 
key-hole and had it picked out by a crane, whom 
God had sent to guard St. Columba’s labors.” 

“So I had better watch out?” 


96 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

Both laughed. Then Jean, looking through 
the window, noticed that Lady Monkton seated 
on the terrace, had been joined by Mr. Ventris. 
She hurried out at once, and Dick quite natural¬ 
ly rose to accompany her. 


CHAPTER IX 

“LES TREYZE SAINCTES HYSTOIRES 
DU JEAN DE BRAQ ” 

T HE question of the loosened stone garland 
and similar matters kept the group on the 
terrace occupied until Sir John Flippin was an¬ 
nounced, followed shortly afterwards by the 
vicar, Mr. Waverley, when they went in to 
luncheon. Miss Lang meanwhile had disap¬ 
peared. Her appearance at table was capricious 
and governed by some mysterious law which 
the American failed entirely to comprehend. 
Dick found himself seated next Sir John, who 
looked today the outdoor sort of person that he 
was. Over Sir John’s head a superb Holbein, 
a lordling of the past, gazed with reflective and 
melancholy eyes upon the blooming lady by Sir 
Peter Lely on the opposite wall. 

Sir John greeted his young friend with hearty 
pleasure that he seemed well again—“altogether 
fit,” as the barrister put it. They had small op¬ 
portunity to talk together, for it chanced that 
Mr. Ventris and the vicar at once launched on 
antiquarian anecdote and old manuscript gossip, 

97 


98 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


fascinating to hear. Mr. Ventris that day was 
in vein. His talk, swift, agreeable, colored like 
some rich arras with brilliant figures, was also 
not without touches of cynicism. Things, he 
declared, were infinitely more important than 
people: books than human lives. 

“.Catherine of Russia was perfectly right 

when she sacrificed her moujiks to guard her 
Raphaels. They were immortal. What do half 
the human beings in the world amount to? 
Nothing! They are not even handsome!” He 
looked for sympathy from one face to another as 
he went on. 

“Old Sir Peter Pyke was telling me at the 
Club yesterday that, on account of his gout, he 
was thinking of putting central heating in his 
library—fancy the destruction....! ‘My God’ 
said I, ‘if you do, Sir Peter, you won't have a 
binding left in ten years!' ‘Well, if I don't, M. 
Charles,' he answered me, ‘my own binding will 
be stripped and in the grave in ten months.' 
‘Plenty more as good as your's!' I told him." 
Mr. Ventris's eyebrows went up and his black 
eyes snapped: while Mr. Waverly looked rather 
shocked. 

“Old Pyke's binding, I agree, is hardly worth 
saving," Sir John rejoined; “but if you were a 
barrister, my dear Ventris, you’d see that doc¬ 
trine won't do....it's the unseen inheritance 
that counts...." 

“Pooh! Pooh!" said the other, with smiling, 
shrugging opposition, “Figments! Shibboleths! 
Half the time non existent, the rest obsolete!" 





‘LES TREYZE SAINCTES HYSTOIRES” 99 


The other disagreeing, he became animated. 

“It's what we hold, what we see, what we 
touch, that raises us above the brutes,” he in¬ 
sisted. “What made England great? The 
land, the houses on the land, the things in the 
houses. I’m for the old Monkton motto— 
'Shank, not rank.’ ” 

“Don’t let him teach you such crass material¬ 
ism,” Sir John said to his young friend. But 
Dick, who felt he understood M. Charles in his 
humor, smiled sympathetically at him across the 
table. Sir John saw the smile, and for some 
reason was irritated. 

“Some of us think,” he observed, “that there 
have been Monktons in the past who sacrificed 
pretty valuable stuff for the sake of all this—” 

“What sort of stuff do you mean?” Dick asked, 
unwisely, and Sir John answered rather loudly, 
“Honors what I mean, my boy!” 

It was pointed, and Dick flushed for his host¬ 
ess, Lady Monkton, who had sat immobile, 
merely dropped her eyelids over her cold eyes. 
Mr. Ventris only looked, amused: if he felt 
annoyance, he didn't show it. He went on eat¬ 
ing his asparagus, and his expression through¬ 
out was almost studiedly gracious. 

“Tut, tut,” said he, “Come, come, Sir John, I 
don’t know. Family archives don’t bear you out 
in that accusation. It’s true that, like me, the 
Monktons felt human happiness to be a slight 
and transitory thing in comparison to Beauty 
like this, which is irreplaceable and eternal. I 
am sincere in feeling that everything ought to 


100 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


be sacrificed to it. I used to say so to Piers and I 
keep saying so to Diccon here.” 

“I’ve no doubt you do/’ was Sir John’s dry 
rejoinder. Dick looked across the room at a 
portrait of the late Sir Piers—whom he had in¬ 
wardly resolved never to call by any other name 
—and began to realize what the influence of 
Charles Ventris must have been upon that dead 
friend. The painted face wore a narrow, self- 
indulgent, weak expression, he thought: how 
this fire must have warmed that dull soul! 
When he turned back again, the conversation 
had changed. 

“I know of nothing antedating the Plato in the 
Bodleian—the one made for Diaconus Arethras 
of Patras in 896.” 

“But there’s a half-uncial script in the Cap¬ 
itular Library at Verona that I recall as earlier 
than 550 A. D.” This from Mr. Waverley. 

“No, no—the one I mean was on purple dyed 
sheepskin, borders diapered in gold and foliated 
—a most lovely thing,” Mr. Ventris assured him: 
while Sir John, evidently desiring forgiveness, 
turned to Lady Monkton with some flattery, 
which passed into talk about common acquaint¬ 
ances and the progress of the season in town. 

Meanwhile the light May breezes wandered in 
at the open casements, the May sunbeams 
touched with fine fingers the face of Sir Peter 
Lely’s pouting model. The servants had left 
the five to themselves and to the fruit piled upon 
the salvers and to the wine in the old decanters. 
Dick wondered at it all—fell into a reverie that 


‘LES TREYZE SAINCTES HYSTOIRES” 101 


he should be seated there, in that famous little 
Dining Parlor, where John Locke had sat at ta¬ 
ble with John Selden; where the Spelmans, 
Archbishop Ussher, Robert Cotton, and the stiffly 
learned William Camden had held long antiquari¬ 
an conferences together. Now he had place in 

that company.A dream, surely? Through 

the window he could see the white peacock still 
making gestures from the wall. He came out of 
his reverie to hear another topic under discussion. 

“Undoubtedly, I agree with you/' Flippin was 
saying. He had well lunched and was now by 
way of agreeing with what was said. “The War 
has lowered the value of human life. Hence 
this wave of violence... .bonds have been un¬ 
loosed : standards altered.... ” 

“I have noticed a lamentable indifference, a 
distinct falling-off in my congregation/’ came 
from the vicar, and to Dick’s surprise, nobody 
smiled. 

“It’s a deep, underlying restlessness—really, 
a sort of tacit warfare between those who have 
and those who have not... .and it works for evil 
both ways. Those who haven’t are breaking 
the laws more readily to get, while those who 
have are far less scrupulous in holding on.” 

“'The simple plan,”’ M. Charles quoted, 
“ 'that those shall get who have the power that 
those shall keep who can—’ ” and a very good 
thing in my opinion.” 

“You are truly consistent, Ventris,” said Sir 
John and was near laughing. But M. Charles 
was serious enough. 



102 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“Can it be possible you don’t agree?” he earn¬ 
estly protested. “Don’t you see one is forced 
into holding on—our class especially—lest all 
that is holy goes over the abyss—ideas and 
things together. ... ? When one thinks of the 
destruction in Russia!—and even among our 
own ranks there are defections every day. Men 
come to me who are selling their pictures, furni¬ 
ture, manuscripts—not that they may live, but 
that they may go to Monte Carlo....! It f s 
shocking.... No: it’s a struggle to keep and 
one must not be too squeamish either. The end 
justifies the means, because we must hang to¬ 
gether until the disintegration!” 

“You grow too exthited, Charles,” Lady 
Monkton lisped, but he only looked at her, ab¬ 
sorbed. 

“Our responsibility, as I tell Diccon here, is 
toward the Past—” and he was still speaking 
enthusiastically on this theme when they rose 
from the table. 

Sir John’s visit had a purpose, which, with 
true English deliberateness, must needs wait till 
he had lunched to his mind. Then the vicar and 
Dick accompanied Lady Monkton to the garden, 
while the other two repaired to the Oak Parlor, 
where they smoked, surrounded by the famous 
Reynolds group, all in tones of bronze, crimson, 
and cream. The Lady Molly Monkton, who 
smiled down on them, wore a white gown with 
a gold colored sash as she trod upon yellowing 
beech-leaves, and was the most distractingly 
lovely creature, the K. C. insisted, that he’d ever 




‘LES TREYZE SAINCTES HYSTOIRES” 103 


laid eyes on. He felt obliged to apologize to 
his gratified companion, for the attention he paid 
her charms.... 

“No place for business, this, eh what? With 
all these charmers about....The smile on my 
lady’s face up there cannot be worth less than 
£ 10 , 000 !” 

Mr. Ventris crinkled up his eyes and laughed. 

“£15,000 in the American market,” he rejoined 
smoothly; “and you are very readily forgiven for 
succumbing to Lady Molly, my dear Flippin! 
Dukes did so in their day—monarchs too, if I 
am not mistaken... .But—now—these letters of 
the woman McNeil—I have them with me. Will 
you look at them?” 

Sir John became grave and moved his head as 
though he already felt the scratch of his wig. 
He took the papers which the other handed him, 
and for some minutes silence succeeded while he 
read. Mr. Ventris let his own eye wander from 
picture to panelling and back again. Having 
read, Sir John folded and replaced the fragile 
yellowed scraps of cheap letter paper and pulled 
afresh at his cigar. 

“Well, of course, so far as they go—there is 
nothing to be said to them,” was his reflective 
observation. “They are quite plain—quite. 
The woman states in so many words what Lady 
Monkton did and what action she herself took; 
and how she felt after she had disposed of the 
infant. And I take it you have no doubt that 
these are genuine letters of this woman?” 

“None. I have compared them with speci¬ 
mens of her writing here; they are genuine.” 


104 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“So I supposed. You are the last person to 
be imposed on by a forgery, I know.” 

“I have spent my life in the study of manu¬ 
script; it is true.” 

“Then that's that. But there are puzzling 
features. It is odd that no one comes forward 
who saw McNeil with the child... .or the Amer¬ 
ican Monktons for that matter!” 

“Odd after twenty-four years?” 

“I cannot but think so.” 

“The War lies between.” 

“I know: that may account for it....” but 
Flippin's frown showed that he was not satisfied. 
“I have often noticed that strangers, visitors to 
England, leave few traces behind them. They 
are flotsam, drifting on the tide; they take a 
house, their servants disperse—in a short time 
nobody seems to recall them. It is very odd. 
And it is important here. Have you done every¬ 
thing to trace this woman McNeil?” 

“Everything that Scrope could suggest, but 
in vain,” Mr. Ventris admitted reluctantly: 
“we've searched, advertised—so far, nothing! 
The earth has swallowed her—literally, no doubt, 
for to my mind she must be dead.” 

“Well, that's very unfortunate for your young 
friend, then,” was Sir John's composed opinion. 

The other protested. “How so? These let¬ 
ters are incontrovertible—they are decisive state¬ 
ments of fact. Isn't that evidence?” 

“Not sufficient in themselves to my mind.” 

“Not when you consider the likeness and my 
own testimony?” 


! LES TREYZE SAINCTES HYSTOIRES” 105 


“Not even then. After all, the likeness was 
strong and these traits have shown themselves 
in the cadet branch... .So you said, at least, in 
your letter to the boy which he showed me on 
ship-board. And what did your acquaintance 
with Mr. Richard Monkton, senior, amount to? 
You took him to Shank for the week-end and he 
was witness to the dissension between Sir Piers 
and his wife... .Then, since he never told you 
that he had any child, you jump to the conclu¬ 
sion that he was childless!” 

Ventris appeared to be deeply thoughtful, and 
his immobility caused Sir John to proceed. 

“The Attorney-General would require more 
evidence than this, I fear. Remember, the 
claimant himself cannot aid you. He has no 
recollections....” 

“He can produce the very rug which McNeil 
mentions, Flippin!” 

“And who is to tell if it is the very rug?” Sir 
John rose and betook himself and his cigar to 
the hearth. “My dear Ventris, the Law is 
the Law. And in this case—forgive me, but 
frankness is best....your own hostility to Sir 
Lycett is well known. It lends a motive_” 

The other interrupted him with a little angry 
laugh. “I should never deny what I feel about 
that man!” he declared. “I regard him as a 
beast, as a criminal. He is the greatest danger 
Shank has faced in half a century. But if he suc¬ 
ceeds—he succeeds: and that is all there is to 
it. I can do nothing. My intense desire for 
his death cannot be felt in the Antarctic ice!” 


106 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


He spoke with a restrained violence which 
caused Sir John to shrug his shoulders. 

“Well, perhaps your prayers may be answered. 
The Antarctic is a roomy graveyard. But do 
not let us lose the thread. You have asked my 
opinion—although a barrister, y’know, need not 
be an expert on these matters. Find McNeil, 
and if she confirms her own letter, your case 
could probably be won. Find, if you can, the 
servants at the house where the infant was left. 
Surely, Mrs. Monkton told somebody the truth 
at some time or other. A letter from her, though 
not perhaps evidence, might go far to help.” 

“I had already thought of it... .but the boy 
cannot assist me there. He was an only child 
when she died... .and certainly no one close to 
them seems to have suspected anything out of 
the way regarding his birth.” 

“Quite so. The thing that worries me is the 
question of character,” the K. C. observed. 
“You knew Monkton... .you were friends.... 
Was he the kind to take this infant and carry it 
home as his own, do you think? He ran great 
risks, remember. The affair is out of key with 
what the boy knows of him.” 

“Not with what I recall,” Mr. Ventris asserted. 
“Monkton was extremely romantic—as Amer¬ 
icans are, you know. He was fascinated by our 
social fabric; rather naively so, I thought. And 
he was very much under the influence of his 
wife.” 

“But you never met his wife.” 

Mr. Ventris pinched together his lips as if 
annoyed. “True; but one knows!” 


[ LES TREYZE SAINCTES HYSTOIRES” 107 


A pause fell, which Mr. Ventris broke: 

“I should remind you that there is no trace of 
registration in London of the birth of a child to 
Mr. and Mrs. Monkton.” 

“That at best is only proving a negative; and 
how about on the Continent whence they came 
to London?” 

“I have examined with no result.” 

“The record would destroy your case, but its 
absence hardly helps you.” 

It was plain that this conversation disap¬ 
pointed M. Charles. He asked once more: 
“Then you do not think that on the evidence 
of the letter Scrope can apply to the Home Sec¬ 
retary?” 

“As to that I should prefer that you also get 
the opinion of a civilian... .it is not a branch of 
the law with which I am familiar. I am treat¬ 
ing the case rather from the standpoint of a man 
of the world. Backed by a witness, these letters 
are very strong evidence. Without such back¬ 
ing, they are in my mind no evidence at all.. 

. .for the reason that they are only letters when 
all is said. Who can say whether the writer 
tells the truth? Do I disappoint you?” 

“I confess it. I had thought such plain state¬ 
ments would be accepted in any court. But I 
should keep you no longer from the gardens on 
so lovely a day. Shall we join Lady Monkton?” 

The glance which he exchanged with the lat¬ 
ter when they met, was the only effect M. Charles 
showed of the discussion with Sir John Flippin. 
He did not re-open the subject, but made him- 


108 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


self as charming as possible in his enjoyment of 
the gardens until the barrister departed for Lon¬ 
don . 

“Come Diccon, come Denise,” he said, while 
they were strolling back toward the Great House 
—“come to the Manuscript Room. I shall show 
you the treasures of Shank... .Where is Miss 
Lang? She shall get the keys and Diccon shall 
see the Treyze Hystoires.” 

Miss Lang was summoned and appeared; keys 
in hand, all four proceeded to the Manuscript 
Room, which adjoined the Oak or Panelled Par¬ 
lor. M. Charles unlocked a special cabinet and 
took from it a large leather case. Meanwhile 
Miss Lang had set nearby an ancient carved 
lectern, and M. Charles reverently drew the folio 
from its protective velvet. When he laid it 
thereon he bade Dick note the jewelled binding, 
the clasps which bore a king’s cypher. The 
pages, as he spread them open, blazed with mi¬ 
nute inlayings of color, as if they had been a 
woven tissue: intricate borders of interlacing 
flowers and grotesques on a gilded ground sur¬ 
rounded the miniatures with rich and delicate 
ornament. 

“A thought too florid perhaps,” murmured 
M. Charles bending over it; “personally, I have 
a greater love for the more naif and restrained 
style of a century earlier... .What do you say, 
Diccon?” 

Dick, who had gasped with pleasure, merely 
shook his head. He had no opinion. M. Charles 
glanced over his absorbed figure to Lady Monk- 




“LES TREYZE SAINCTES HYSTOIRES” 109 

ton, meeting her eyes with a smile. Both of 
them looked, not at the glorious illumination but 
at the sensitive face bent over it: the hands 
whose touch was delicate and loving. 

“Was Flippin very disappointing, Charles ?” 

Denise asked the question. The two sat late 
together in the soft, spring twilight talking of 
the past. At the name Mr. Ventris made an 
impatient gesture. 

“He was what he is—a lawyer. You know 
those gentry. I should not trouble to win him 
over but for the fact that Richard seems to value 
his judgment/’ 

“I thought him horridly rude at lunch.” 

“That very bluntness will make him a val¬ 
uable ally once he is convinced. And we shall 
convince him—have I ever failed to do what I 
wished?” 

“Never, Charles.” 

The vain smile with which he had spoken died 
out into seriousness. 

“You saw the boy’s face when he looked at the 
Treyze Hystoires... .could there be any doubt 
in the world left? Was he not a real Monkton, 
the child, the protector of Shank?” 

Her face lit and quivered. 

“When you remember that other! But I shall 
not even think of him. I have no doubts my¬ 
self. Richard must be the heir: proofs of the 
fact must exist: if they exist, they must be found. 
That woman McNeil—can she be alive, do you 
think?” 

“No Charles; I feel she is dead.” 



110 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“So do I. So do I. Well: there are possible 
clues. I must talk again to Scrope....I must 
work harder—Denise, .we have sacrificed every¬ 
thing for Shank, you and I!” 

“God knows!” 

There was a note of despair in her voice. He 
saw her hand lying on the arm of her chair and 
laid his own upon it. In the dusk his eyes were 
gleaming. 

“You made the great sacrifice... .don't think 
I forget_and if there are other tasks and sac¬ 

rifices ahead... .1 know I can count on you! I 
know you will not fail me.” 

His strange, compelling voice had the effect 
upon her that it always had. .. .all that she might 
have said died in her throat... .Her hand lay in 
his quite helplessly and they sat thus in silence 
for a long while. Charles Ventris forgot to 
smoke: his head was bent on his breast and his 
veiled eyes were deep in thought. 


CHAPTER X 

THE ARTIST’S COLOR-BOX 

S HE was a strange creature, Denise Monkton. 

Dick felt at times that she belonged, not 
merely to another country, but to another age. 
The women he had known thus far were clear, 
alert, positive, self-confident; expressed them¬ 
selves readily on any subject; had a crystal sure¬ 
ness of manner; knew their own value in the 
scheme of their world; feared nothing, doubted 
nothing, and played the ancient game of sex- 
attraction with a certain hardness of touch and 
abstraction of thought, as one, let us say, plays 
the organ, who might prefer to play the piano. 
They flirted tremendously, but it was an awak¬ 
ened flirtation: one felt that the bright creature 
was watching one all the while, saying to herself: 
“Such-and-such stops of this queer instrument 
will produce such-and-such music—how stupid!” 
At bottom they were as comradely, definite, and 
devoted as men themselves. 

Nothing could be less clear than Lady Monk- 
ton. Her personality was a clouded glass 
whereon strange figures moved at strange tasks, 
ill 


112 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


She was capable of extreme passivity, lying for 
hours on the terrace with folded hands; but 
Dick, when he heard her dictating to Miss Lang 
in the mornings, saw that she was capable of ex¬ 
treme activity as well. Her alternations of lan¬ 
guor and energy were capricious. Sometimes 
she vanished from sight—or appeared to do so— 
for hours, and would be found sitting in perfect 
quiet in one of the more beautiful rooms or gal¬ 
leries—just looking, looking. She was exceed¬ 
ingly studied in dress, a study which had no ref¬ 
erence to the fashions, for she shrouded her long, 
thin figure in the dead-black or dead-white drap¬ 
eries of widowhood, on which glittered a cross 
that had once belonged to Marguerite de 
Navarre. It seemed to link her strangely to the 
Valois. Usually, she talked little. When she 
talked much, her lisp became apparent. She 
often asked questions: she seldom answered 
them save by a slow smile. Her people at 
Shank, dependents, neighbors, retainers, thought 
her hard: she had none of the bluff maternalism 
of the usual aristocratic landholder. “ ’Er lady¬ 
ship don’t ’eed,” they would say, “she’s a secret 
one, she is!” Denise didn’t heed; or rather 
what she heeded was interior. The paradoxical 
things about her were her unsureness and her 
extreme nervousness. Her passivity had little 
to do with tranquillity, it seemed. Despite her 
authority, her consideration, her position as 
Lady Monkton of Shank, any sudden action or 
sudden decision caused her a quiver of hesita¬ 
tion. And responsibility had brought to settle 


THE ARTIST’S COLOR-BOX 


113 


on her face a perpetual shade of anxiety and of 
apprehension; her sidelong glance was the same 
which one sees in some shy animal who lives in 
fear. 

“Shank is a heavy burden on you?” Dick ask¬ 
ed her once, and she looked at him, answering 
with her lisp: “A heavy burden—a gweat joy!” 
Often he recalled the words as he moved about 
this incredible place of residence. “A heavy 
burden—a great joy!” 

Dick felt, with the buoyancy of spirit which 
he was so rapidly regaining, that this burden was 
made too much of—was really unnecessary. 

“What after all is there to be afraid of, M. 
Charles ?” he protested, as they went their rounds 
together. “The pictures and all are so well 
known that a thief could never realize on them— 
how could he?” 

Mr. Ventris shook his head. “You don’t un¬ 
derstand, my dear boy. They’d hold ’em to 
ransom, as it was done at the Louvre.... 
and with taxes and all, we are poor at Shank. 
Yes: despite all I can do—and Piers was very 
successful with his investments, you know— 
Shank eats it all up and makes us poor... .To 
keep the very roof on the house costs us over 
£ 1,000 a year!” 

“Still, with all these servants—and the door of 
the courtyard shut at night, I don’t see why you 
fear,” Dick repeated, glancing as he spoke at the 
enormous, oaken, iron-studded medieval portal, 
before which they stood. 

“It’s not from without that the danger will 


114 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


come,” M. Charles had replied and slipped his 
arms into his motor-coat. 

This was on the morning when he was about 
to leave Shank. Dick had gone with him from 
room to room, from cabinet to cabinet, from 
picture to picture. Nothing escaped him—the 
patient Miss Lang at his elbow could hardly 
keep pace with the detail so lovingly observed 
by his watchful eyes. The care of the curtains 
of the King’s bed, whose heavy embroideries of 
gold and silver thread might wear out the tissue 
they adorned—the constant inspection of bind¬ 
ings to guard against warping—checking each 
treasure of porcelain or of enamel—examination 
of the tapestries, where any loose stitch must be 
at once invisibly caught with matching thread— 
guarding of the arms and armor from encroach¬ 
ing rust—search for possible leaks or loosened 
stonework—talks with the head gardener about 
the roses and with the head forester about the 
deer-—Dick had followed all this with admira¬ 
tion. No lover served his mistress more unself¬ 
ishly than M. Charles served Shank: his pas¬ 
sionate devotion looked to the past—not to the 
future. His task made the figures real that 
walked through the centuries in that setting. 
They were living people to M. Charles: he made 
them live to Dick, who avidly listened. 

The huge, pursy, evil-tempered Arcbishop who 
had laid heavy hand on the countryside from his 
palace at Shank: that gay light-o’-love of Henry 
VIII....the fair-skinned, burly, tennis-playing 
tyrant, with that scarlet plague, the Cardinal, 


THE ARTIST’S COLOR-BOX 


115 


ever at his side; the later Monktons, owners 
and acolytes; Piers the first, who renounced an 
Earldom for the sake of Shank: Roger, who 
sold the very horses in his stable to buy the 9th 
Velasquez; Howard, who died from the shock 
of learning that a Holbein had been stolen from 
the gallery: Lady Molly, who refused a Duke 
to marry an antiquarian—these ghosts still peo¬ 
pled the house, and Dick felt that when M. 
Charles entered a gallery at one end, they had 
only just slipped out at the other. 

Now Mr. Ventris was leaving all this: he was 
to be absent for some time in France. He bade 
them farewell and his tall figure settled itself in a 
corner of his car. Moving from the Guard¬ 
house archway, the motor sped down the beech 
avenue and Charles Ventris turned in his seat 
to wave a last farewell at Dick, who waved back. 
Both were smiling. 

A woman’s figure, seated as usual before an 
easel, not far from where the car passed, put 
down her palette to gaze after it and the action 
recalled Dick to the fact that this seated artist 
had been an ever-present feature of the Park 
landscape since the day of his own arrival. Per¬ 
chance M. Charles’s zeal was contagious; per¬ 
chance, which was true, his own mind had begun 
to accept the future instead of shivering away 
from it; certainly, he was suddenly conscious 
of a new sense of responsibility. Thus he rather 
surprised his hostess by saying to her with de¬ 
cision as the car disappeared among the trees: 
“I guess I’ll stroll in the Park awhile and drop 



116 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


into conversation with the artist yonder. If 
she’s an American I’d like to know what kind of 
a one she is.” 

Lady Monkton said it would be a good idea. 
She looked badly, Richard thought, and owned 
to a poor night. “I am always easier when 
Charles is here,” she confessed with a sigh. “It 
is such a responsibility: I shall not be sorry to 
give it up when the time comes.” 

She opened upon Richard her strange eyes 
with a half-smile of significant meaning that did 
not escape him. He flushed under it, his heart 
beat faster, and when she saw it, her smile deep¬ 
ened. 

Spring seemed glowing into summer as Dick 
wandered about under the trees of the Park— 
keeping away from the deer in their shelter of 
bracken. On his way back, as he had declared, 
he passed by the artist’s easel and glanced at the 
sketch thereon—accepting the permission of a 
slight nod. The sketch was not artistically 
striking, but it reproduced, if rather obviously, 
the scene before them. 

From this angle the view was wholly of the 
older portion of Shank—a huddle of steep roofs 
and gables, tall chimneys and dominating tow¬ 
ers, encircled with an old wall like a village in 
the background of an Italian painting. Dick 
knew little of that part of the building, where 
Elizabethan dwelling had been piled upon Nor¬ 
man abbey,—save as a seldom-entered labyrinth 
of courts, passages, brew and bake houses, 
cyrpts and stables. So when the artist in a 


THE ARTIST’S COLOR-BOX 


117 


pleasant, but markedly American voice, asked 
him something about it, he merely shook his 
ignorant head. 

“Well, I’d be just perfectly content if, like you, 
I could stay in the main part,” was her comment; 
“it must be too wonderful.” 

He agreed that it was and studied her, feeling 
at ease. She was decidedly middle-aged and 
somewhat short, with plain hair drawn smoothly 
back in grey bands; firm, pleasant features and 
large, blue eyes. These eyes were both steady 
and quick and they lent her face intelligence. 
This lady wore an exceedingly tasteful dress of 
blue serge and on one wrist had a little, diamond- 
set watch. She was point-device in these things; 
unlike most artists noticed by the other. When 
Richard assumed that she was his country¬ 
woman, she at once admitted the fact with a 
pleasant smile. 

“Oh, yes—I spotted you right away—the first 
time. When you walked down the avenue yes¬ 
terday, I said, that’s an American boy—all right. 
My name is Byrd—Mrs. Byrd, and I am from 
Chicago. I’m boarding with the rector down 
there—” and she indicated the direction of the 
village. 

“You love sketching, evidently,” the young 
man said, quite re-assured by this harmless ac¬ 
count of herself tendered by the blue-eyed lady. 

“I do so. It keeps me out of doors, and when 
I paint I can see all that much better,” she nodded 
at the Great House. “That sort of thing is new 
to me and I’m quite crazy about it... .We don’t 
have ’em in Chicago!” 


118 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

Dick laughed and raised his cap to move on—- 
then a thought struck him. “You've been over 
the house, of course?" he asked her and Mrs. 
Byrd said she had. 

“I go every Thursday—I guess they're about 
sick of me," said she, “but I’m always hoping the 
whim will strike 'em to show us a little more, you 
see....After all there are loads of rooms and 
things I haven't seen and I would love to look at 
the Reynolds." 

Her appeal was plaintive and he replied that 
he knew how she felt. “I’ll speak to Lady 
Monkton and perhaps she can arrange it. You’re 
apt to be here on most clear days, aren't you?" 
he asked her. 

“Oh, I’m always somewhere about," she re¬ 
plied; so he raised his cap and left her busily at 
work. 

After he had disappeared within the grey 
walls, the artist laid down her brush and set her 
canvas aside, replacing it by a sketch-book 
which she took from the portfolio leaning against 
her stool. Its pages showed views of Shank all 
made in pencil, with great exactness of arch- 
itechtural detail—in wholly another style from 
the impressionist oil sketch on which she had 
been working. These drawings were covered 
with annotations, while some of the doors and 
windows were numbered in tiny, clear digits. 
All were of the back part, the older portion of 
the Great House. Mrs. Byrd of Chicago drew 
from the cover of this sketch-book a carefully 
drawn ground-plan of the whole building, a plan 


THE ARTIST’S COLOR-BOX 


119 


showing court-yards, rooms and galleries, halls 
and stair-cases—and then, spreading it smooth 
upon the easel, she set to work with a fine pointed 
pencil, to make corresponding digits upon this 
plan. She spent an hour at this, working with 
minute care: after which she closed the book 
and put it away, picked up the easel, portfolio 
and stool, and thus laden began slowly to walk 
in the direction of the village. 

Shankmere lies in one long, straggling street 
on the main road from London to Tunbridge 
Wells—a busy, modern, active town with an air 
of ignoring the Great House which dominates 
it from the hill near-by. Iron gates, with intri¬ 
cate armorial bearings, open directly upon the 
main street into the beech avenue of the Park. 
Mrs. Byrd, however, did not pass through these 
gates but turned aside to thread her way under 
the new leaves of the trees, till she struck a little 
path leading to the Church and to the vicarage 
which adjoined it. This was a small, comfort¬ 
able house in villa-style, quite modern and very 
cheerful—which was known as Shank Paddock, 
and commanded a wide prospect of the Park. 
Ever since the War, the Waverleys had been 
glad to let a couple of rooms to specially-chosen 
inmates and they found Mrs. Byrd an agreeable 
tenant, who never asked the price of anything. 
She was quiet and independent in her ways, con¬ 
tent to go sketching around the country-side, 
and she gave no trouble except when she desired 
to have a fire in her rooms on evenings which 
the vicar thought “stufify.” To be sure, she in- 


120 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

sisted on calling Mr. Waverley the rector and 
speaking of the vicarage as the rectory, not¬ 
withstanding the fact that he carefully explained 
the difference to her. She had heard him out 
with steady blue eyes fixed on his face and had 
replied: “You don’t say? So I’ve been making 
an ecclesiastical mess of terms all my life ? 
Well, I don’t want to be adding to the cares of 
the already overburdened Church of England, 
now do I?” 

Mr. Waverley had hastened, with the most 
earnest reassurances on that point, to beg her 
not to take the error too seriously and Mrs. Byrd 
had promised that she wouldn’t. There had 
been a gleam in her glance which puzzled the 
good vicar and he later avowed among his 
friends that there was much in the transatlantic 
personality which he failed to understand.. 

Mrs. Byrd’s sitting-room had one long window 
opening on the lawn, which on this pleasant 
afternoon stood open. Seated on the sill await¬ 
ing her, chin in hands, she beheld her friend Miss 
Jean Lang. 

Miss Lang had honored the spring day with a 
frock which was a little more frilly and less 
severe than her habitual business dress. Frills 
meant holiday to Jean and she had an hour or so 
to herself that afternoon. She waved at the ap¬ 
proaching figure, which hurried toward her with 
a rapid step despite its burden; and Mrs. Byrd 
smiled welcome upon her guest. 

“Well, my lamb,” was her greeting, “you look 
as fresh as the May.” 



THE ARTIST’S COLOR-BOX 


121 


“And I feel as dull as November/” the girl 
answered, taking the easel out of her hand as 
they stepped into the room. “Such a pile of 
tasks as Mr. Ventris has left for me! And just 
when I was thinking of asking for a vacation.” 

“You’ll get that later, no doubt,” her friend 
comforted her. 

“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,” said Jean 
forlornly. “My mother’s letter said that Biddy, 
my old nurse, you know, has been pretty bad with 
the ’flu. She needs me, but I’m afraid she’ll have 
to wait.” 

Mrs. Byrd had laid aside her scarf: put her 
sketch-book and color-box on a near-by table 
and was soon seated behind the tea-tray which 
the maid had just brought in. She smiled upon 
her visitor, showing that she had white teeth as 
well as blue eyes. Somehow Jean felt that she 
was younger than her hair: she seemed so purely 
healthy and vigorous: and her clothes were so 
fashionable in cut and to Jean’s mind, so expen¬ 
sive! On her part, the elder woman looked with 
pleasure at the girl’s erect and pliant shape— 
as graceful as any Frenchwoman’s—her clear 
skin, just a thought freckled and her individual 
face framed in black hair. Mrs. Byrd simply 
longed to put really good clothes on her, and 
proper accessories. “She’s just the sort to 
dress,” was her reflection. “With that white 
skin and lovely figure —quelle jolie laide she 
would make, if I had her at home!” Aloud, she 
wisely observed: “But you love your work, 
don’t you? That’s why you chose it?” 


122 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“Of course I love it—I love anything to do 
with books and pictures and the past,” Miss 
Lang assented, eating cake with appetite. “I 
chose it because I’d heard so much about Shank 
and its glories from my nurse, who was once in 
service there. She told me all about the coljec- 
tions, so vividly, that I jumped at the chance to 
come—although the pay is much less than I 
could get, I know. That’s the odd thing about 
Lady Monkton and Mr. Ventris—they’ll spend 
hundreds of pounds on something—while they 
keep me down to the last sixpence!” 

“People are like that,” Mrs. Byrd said. 

“Of course I’ve learned a lot that’s useful. 
Do you know, after all she told me, Biddy hated 
my coming to Shank? She made a great to 
do....and mother writes she still worries over 
it-she says its a frightening house.” 

“How funny!” 

“Isn’t it? She doesn’t explain. She just 
shakes her head, poor old dear!” 

“Perhaps she had a disagreeable experience. 
Was it in Sir Piers’ time?” the American queried. 

“I never asked her—but of course mother 
says the same. Biddy won’t talk about it. 
Sometimes I wonder,” Jean went on reflectively, 
“if it isn’t the same that I feel myself at moments. 
Shank is frightening. Shank’s so old and so 
wonderful and so valuable—it just sits there and 
keeps us all busy... .1 laughed at Biddy first but 
I don’t now... .Think of the size of it, and the 
splendor—century after century flaunting those 
treasures—and its people have no lives of their 


THE ARTIST’S COLOR-BOX 


123 


own; they just serve Shank. Yes: to a certain 
kind of imagination, I think it’s rather awe¬ 
inspiring,” 

Mrs. Byrd heard her attentively. 

“Have you ever been to Venice ?” she re¬ 
marked. “No?... .well, it was night the first 
time I ever saw the Piazza... .San Marco fright¬ 
ened me dreadfully... .There it squatted in the 
dusk like a great golden spider with a humped 
back and gleaming eyes and brilliant, deadly 
antennae waving in front of it... .1 felt as if it 
were going to spring like some antediluvian 
beast... .Yes, it takes strength of mind, Jean, 
to live with the Past. Your old nurse felt, that, 
I guess. Shank was too much for her_” 

Sympathy of this sort had been rare in the 
girl's experience. She yielded herself to the cur¬ 
rent with a sigh of pleasure. She told about 
the books, the manuscripts, the pictures; about 
the daily routine; about the enthusiasm of Mr. 
Ventris, his skill and his knowledge; about 
Lady Monkton’s nervousness and her complete 
seclusion since the death of Sir Piers; and about 
the rumors flying over the village that the good- 
looking American was a Claimant. 

“Do you think it's true?”, the elder lady en¬ 
quired, much interested. “I’ve heard the story 
naturally, everybody has....but Pve been in 
Philadelphia. It’s a hard-headed place and 
everybody knows everybody else’s grandfather. 
’Tisn’t as if he came from New York, where 
people drift on the tide of business exactly like 
sea-weed, my dear! I never met a romantic 




124 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

Philadelphian—Quakers aren't, you know—so I 
can't believe this!" 

“Mr. Ventris must believe it," Jean told her; 
“he's evidently fond of Mr. Monkton." 

“Should you say Ventris’s judgment was to 
be trusted?" 

The question was of the idlest, yet somehow 
it stiffened Miss Lang. She said: “Why, I 
think so," and was silent, anxious not to be in¬ 
discreet. Mrs. Byrd, pushed by her own inter¬ 
est, asked one or two intimate questions, only 
to be met with similar reserve. She saw that 
the girl's reticence sprung less from a deliberate 
policy than from a dignified nature, so Mrs. 
Byrd liked her even better for being no gossip. 

The American turned their conversation to the 
past and heard all about the history of Shank 
and of the Monktons, and how, by the great skill 
of Charles Ventris and his flair for discovering 
rarities in the little-known villages of Italy and 
France, the libraries and manuscript collection 
had been built up and enriched. She told how 
his search in the ecclesiastical portion, the Arch¬ 
bishop’s room, had resulted in his finding the 
secret cupboard which contained the Treyze 
Sainctes Hystoires..._ 

Mrs. Byrd seemed to have more than the usual 
interest in, and some rather unusual knowledge 
of such things. She avowed a longing to see 
the Treyze Hystoires—but Jean couldn't prom¬ 
ise to show it to her, not while Mr. Ventris was 
away. 

“I guess they keep all those things under lock 
and key?" the lady said, and Jean nodded: 



THE ARTIST’S COLOR-BOX 


125 


“Yes indeed: we've a special cabinet that’s 
like a safe, fireproof of course, in the Manuscript 
Room/’ and she described it. 

“Well, it takes patience to find such things and 
knowledge to recognize them when you find 
them,” Mrs. Byrd admitted. “We in the States 
haven’t got much of either; so we pay the other 
fellow to carry them off. I guess Mr. Ventris 
has sold some things to the Metropolitan....! 
read about his selling something just before the 
War—to St. Louis, I think it was?” 

“Yes, indeed....he got nearly £10,000 that 
year, and do you know? it nearly all went to 
Shank! By that, I mean that he gave most of 
it to Sir Piers to buy a Holbein that just com¬ 
pleted the group.” 

“You don’t say—! That was nice of him!” 

“That’s what he is—it’s his passion, you see.” 

Tea drunk, shadows had fallen on the lawn 
and golden mist lingered on the tree-tops. Jean 
rose with a sigh. She liked Mrs. Byrd so 
much!.... The window, which still stood open, 
had an awkward handle, so that when it caught 
in Jean’s sash, there was a slam, the table was 
hit and Mrs. Byrd’s paint-box scattered its tubes 
upon the floor. Jean stooped at once, disregard¬ 
ing the “Oh, never mind, my dear!” with which 
the owner had sprung alertly forward for the 
same purpose. Both bent, then the Scots girl 
suddenly checked, with a strange look on her 
face. A small, heavy object lay on the carpet 
among the tubes of paint—rather a startling ob¬ 
ject, being a perfectly practicable revolver. 



126 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


There was a pause: Mrs. Byrd stood up with 
some tubes of paint in one hand and the revolver 
in the other. She looked square into Jean's 
eyes. 

“I didn't mean to leave that in my paint-box." 
she said in her ordinary voice and without a trace 
of embarrassment; “I usually wear it on me. 
It's an old habit, and one I contracted as a girl, 
under circumstances I shall tell you about some 
day... .Lucky it didn't go off and frighten the 
Waverleys out of their wits! Must you go? 
Good-bye, my dear." 

From the window, Mrs. Byrd watched, for a 
moment, the vanishing figure of Miss Lang 
among the trees. As she turned back into the 
room, she paused, glancing at what she still held. 

“My dear Georgie," said Mrs. Byrd to herself: 
“You're getting careless!" 

Miss Lang, too, was frowning as she hurried 
across the Park. 


CHAPTER XI 

ANGELS AND VISITORS 

T O live in such a place was to undergo many 
curious revelations, by whose light Dick 
came better to understand the attitude of its in¬ 
habitants. Why Lady Monkton dwelt therein 
apart, as in a different country, began to be ex¬ 
plained less by a seclusion of mourning than 
by the fact that so exotic an atmosphere 
tended to put one out of key with the outside 
world. He doubted if anyone could ever get 
quite used to it. In the first place, there was the 
startling perfection of all the familiar objects 
surrounding one’s life. Things one handled or 
beheld daily, the color and shape of the ewer, or 
frame of the mirror, or a vivid glimpse, swiftly 
caught, of some great picture through an arrased 
doorway—either one succumbed to their spell, 
being sensitive to beauty, shut all else out, or 
one came almost to resent it, to be hostile. This 
latter was not Dick’s state of mind, but he recog¬ 
nized that it might be. Save on rare business, 
Lady Monkton seldom went beyond the park 
gates, and her guest found, especially after Mr. 
127 


128 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Ventris’s departure, that he was content to do 
the like, to look about, and to dream. So much 
was to be seen, and so rich was the tissue of his 
dreams! 

Much of her time Denise Monkton, too, spent 
in apparent dreaming. Dick came upon her 
more than once as he roamed the sumptuous 
chambers and galleries, perhaps studying their 
contents, perhaps merely delighting in the rich¬ 
ness of their effect. One afternoon he wandered 
into the Green Gallery, through whose windows 
the tint of its moss-velvet and wide-spaced tap¬ 
estry was repeated in the turf and the yews and 
the newly budded hedges. Breezes slipped in and 
out of the open casements, birds twittered and 
were gone in a flash. As he walked that long 
perspective of diminishing beams and windows, 
he saw, at the further end of it, the figure of the 
secretary, the girl Jean Lang, standing tall and 
still in front of what he took to be the closed 
doors of a medieval shrine. This shrine he had 
noticed before, with the doors which sealed the 
centre compartment and whose carving was 
flanked by two paintings, faint, fantastic pic¬ 
tures which he had in his own mind set down to 
Piero di Cosimo. Here must be concealed some 
precious marvel, and Dick hastened his pace 
toward the secretary, eager for this chance to 
see what lay behind. The girl gravely turned 
her head at his approach, but her attention 
seemed centered on the carven doors, which were 
of ancient wood as black as jet with a design of 
angels bearing torches in their raised grasp. 


ANGELS AND VISITORS 


129 


Upon one of the roses which formed a part of 
the design, Miss Lang’s long hand was laid, while 
the other gestured the young man to silence. 
Then she pulled open the doors and stood aside 
that he might look... .but it was not at all upon 
what he had expected to see. 

The angels, with their cressets and roses, were 
not the doors of a shrine but the shutters to a 
window, through which he found himself sud¬ 
denly gazing down into the chapel below. Sun¬ 
set, flaming through its glass, lit multicolored 
fires on the cool marble pavement. At the chan¬ 
cel, in the Bishop’s Stall, Lady Monkton had 
placed herself and fallen into reverie. Crimson 
cushions and embroidered banners threw her 
white dress into relief; her scarf gave the illusion 
of a coif; and the sunbeam, falling on the cross 
of Marguerite de Valois, spattered her gown 
with prismatic sparkles... .Her pose was full of 
unconscious grace, her gaze was fixed, her face 
in shadow; yet there arose to the watchers above, 
a strong, a definite emanation of unhappiness, of 
unrest. 

Miss Lang softly closed the shutters and the 
two glanced at one another. 

“Thanks,” Dick said gratefully, “for letting 
me look. It was a picture I shan’t soon forget. 
I didn’t realize how much she mourns her hus¬ 
band.” 

They were walking down the gallery side by 
side, and Miss Lang did not quickly answer. 

“They say,” at length she proffered; “her peo¬ 
ple, I mean, that she has done this always. One 



130 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


comes upon her here and there, sitting, thinking. 
I don’t know if she grieves—perhaps it’s just her 
way of enjoying Shank.” 

“No doubt.” He looked, however, as though 
he thought this explanation unbecomingly mat¬ 
ter-of-fact. “Yet one sees plainly how she feels. 
And they were great companions, weren’t they, 
she and Sir Piers? Congenial and fond of the 
same things?” 

“Oh, of course, Lady Monkton is crazy 
about Shank,” the secretary assented: then, as 
they had reached the door of the gallery, she gave 
her companion a stiff, half-smile of farewell and 
turned quickly down the stairway before he 
could prevent her. The young man regretted 
a little; he would have liked to talk longer 
with this sensible, if non-committal young per¬ 
son. But when he tried, she always slipped away. 

Silent absorption in the miracle of their sur¬ 
roundings appeared to be the keynote of the 
place and of his life therein, which was wholly 
taken up with visual and pictorial impressions. 
Nobody seemed inclined for conversation any 
more than this reticent Scottish girl, and the im¬ 
portance of people and of social contacts ap¬ 
peared less than it would have been almost any¬ 
where else. Shank was, in reality, completely 
distracting. Yet it must not be supposed that 
they lacked visitors, and indeed Richard soon 
saw what the guardianship of such possessions 
entailed in tact and social instinct. Scarcely a 
day passed without pilgrims, letters of intro¬ 
duction, the friends of friends, students of all 


ANGELS AND VISITORS 


131 


types with their varying" demands on Lady 
Monkton's time and energy. There was the 
friend who drove over to luncheon from a mould¬ 
ering moat-house in the neighborhood, where 
the bare walls had been stripped to glut the Lon¬ 
don auctions, and who shook her head enviously 
over the serene richness of Shank. This lady 
had square shoulders, a high-bridged nose, and 
auburn hair. She began her conversation with 
young Monkton by asking him squarely if he 
had “lots and lots of dollars, as you all have?” 
and startled him a good deal on his embarrassed 
negative by avowing “well, then, you won't do 
for my girl at any rate!” 

All of luncheon was spent for the American 
in these breath-taking revelations of British 
frankness, and in his realizing, by the time it 
was over, that Lady Monkton with her evasive 
tact and grave subtlety of glance, was no more 
English than he was himself. Then came Mr. 
Lawrence Yockley, the antiquarian, with a sec¬ 
retary, a terrier, and a monocle, who dictated to 
the secretary in corners while the terrier 
mounted guard over the group. He was writing 
a book and expected lunch sent out to him in 
whatever part of the building he happened to be 
at work, while he glared ferociously at Dick 
through the monocle, whenever that unoffending 
young man chanced to draw near. 

The antiquarian was followed by a fashionable 
French painter, the enthusiastic M. Delmas de 
Rambouillet, who spent two days following 
Denise Monkton about with his tireless flow of 



132 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Gallic raptures, and left her, she acknowledged, 
“utterly exhausted/’ He wasn’t writing a book 
—but everyone at Shank would have been thank¬ 
ful had his interest in the collections been less 
talkative. A solemn Committee from the So¬ 
ciety of Antiquaries next had to be given aud¬ 
ience, demanding a special room and Miss 
Lang’s entire time, for the purpose of their re¬ 
searches into the life history of that master col¬ 
lector, Piers I. The vicar, Mr. Waverley, came 
often. He too was writing something and had 

to have access to the Manuscript Room. 

In addition to these visitors, somehow there 
was always a stranger with a letter from some¬ 
body, who must be guided, shepherded, lectured 
to, and seen safely beyond the gates. Then 
there was the usual Thursday gathering of tour¬ 
ists, which was larger at this season than at any 
other; copyists and photographers who were 
not content with writing letters, but appeared 
in person and argued with Dolly at the gate¬ 
house. Richard began to feel a certain sym¬ 
pathy with the absent curator, whose letters 
were filled with admonitions showing where his 
thoughts turned, and with the nervous weariness 
which was so noticeable in the mistress of the 
house. The Past seemed to lay all its rich 

weight upon them. 

Meanwhile, he did not forget his promise to 
Mrs. Byrd and spent a pleasant morning con¬ 
ducting that lady through the parts of the house 
not generally shown. She turned out to be in¬ 
dividual as well as appreciative, with indications 




ANGELS AND VISITORS 


133 


of taste, of knowledge, and of nice perception. 
Particularly did he notice this with gratitude 
when they were crossing from wing to wing of 
the building by one end of the terrace, at the 
other end of which Lady Monkton’s figure was 
to be seen seated in her chair, and Mrs. Byrd 
asked no questions, did not so much as glance 
in the direction of that interesting lady. This 
well-bred nicety fitted in with Mrs. Byrd's blue 
eyes and the elegance of her white linen frock 
and its appointments, all of which testified to the 
dominant talent of his countrywomen. As they 
walked, she chattered freely in admiring com¬ 
mentary, which had often a quaint little tang to 
it. 

When she gazed up at the Archbishop, who 
appeared, in the noon light, especially flown with 
insolence, her remark was simply, “Well, I’m 
glad he’s dead!” 

This was uttered with such energy that her 
guide could only laugh as he reminded her: 
“Ah, but if the evil that men do lives after 
them—!” 

The group of what she called “those Reynolds 
people,” delighted her, “and I’m glad to see them 
here,” said she, “in this sort of a room, I mean. 
They never look happy in Chicago, and the 
Metropolitan Museum makes them cross. Can 
you imagine how Lady Molly would feel if she 
were stared at by Israel Boscovitch and his 
sweetie—both chewing gum?” 

But in front of the “great” Hoppner she stood 
silent to look, with a light upon her face which 
seemed a reflection of its immortal radiance.... 


134 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


He showed her everything, the jewels and 
porcelains in the cabinets, the Vierge a la 
Carafe, smiling strangely above the oblationary 
bowl of flowers placed beneath it—an offering 
which had not once been forgotten in three 
centuries. In the Manuscript Room, Miss Lang 
came forward to greet her friend and to place 
treasures before her, noting, not without sur¬ 
prise, that Mrs. Byrd handled them with a prac¬ 
tised touch. 

“You are used to them, aren’t you?” she re¬ 
marked. 

“Oh, I’ve a few of my own stuck off somewhere 
in that greedy way we have,” the other answered 
discontently. “I love ’em, so that a thing like 
this”—and she tapped the Monkton missal— 
“just turns me green with envy. I’d been think¬ 
ing hard thoughts of the Monktons; but why 
should I, when I know how it feels? Take the 
thing away, Jeanie! My father was a deacon 
of the Congregational Church, but somehow as 
a moral influence he seems rather far away.” 

Her friend smiled, a sudden young smile in her 
grey-green eyes. She locked the great volume 
in its case, while Mrs. Byrd looked comically on. 

“Of course we’ve our private robber barons 
in Chicago,” she remarked, as they came out 
from the Manuscript Room and walked across 
the two courts toward the guard-house; “but 
they’re modest and retiring compared to the 
lords of Shank. The collections are wonderful 
enough in themselves, but when one looks at 
their setting—!” 


ANGELS AND VISITORS 


135 


Miss Lang, waving farewell, turned back to her 
work; Richard was left alone to accompany Mrs. 
Byrd on her way. 

“It seems rather stagey, Shank,” he agreed 
glancing over his shoulder. “Sometimes it 
seems to be all set up for a play that never hap¬ 
pens.” 

Mrs. Byrd cocked her head at this. 

“Never is the wrong word, my Philadelphia 
friend,” was her retort. “Fate’s a clever stage 
manager, even if his entr’actes seem sometimes 
rather long. He seldom wastes a good decor .... 
You wait a while, and I shouldn’t be surprised 
if the curtain went up quite unexpectedly one 
of these days.” 

Her voice was lightly playful, but he had cause 
to remember before very long that there had 
been a significant steadiness in her blue gaze. 
The words stuck in his mind. 


CHAPTER XII 

BEHIND THE BACCHANTE 

R AIN fell, turning the afternoon to silver 
grey. On the courtyard the sound was 
dull; on the terrace, delicate. The trees in the 
Park stood immobile in the soft fall, each wear¬ 
ing a veil of mist: parapets and towers ascended 
into the clouds and w’ere hidden. Dick sat in 
the smaller library and read through long, tran¬ 
quil hours. Lady Monkton had gone to Lon¬ 
don for a night or two. Mr. Ventris had been 
absent nearly three weeks... .Dick did not mind 

being left alone_there was so much to see. 

When he raised his eyes from his book, it was 
to encounter the gaze of the Archbishop—he 
that built Shank, who sat majestically above the 
mantlepiece in robes that fell about him like 
suave, crimson flames. In his grasp, he held an 
ivory statuette, a smooth-limbed Venus, which 
his fingers caressed. All of the man seemed to 
be revealed by the voluptuous touch of those fine 
and cruel hands. 

“Mr. Monkton, may I speak to you just one 
minute ?” Miss Lang, standing on the thres- 

136 


BEHIND THE BACCHANTE 


137 


hold to prefer this request, was by no means the 
Miss Lang whom Dick was accustomed to see, 
absorbed, active, busy about her work: Her 
face, her voice, were hesitant and troubled. 

"To be sure you may/’ said he, laid his book 
down and jumped up. 

“Fm so worried—something so very odd has 
happened/ 5 The secretary spoke in a little burst 
of anxiety. "Today you know is public day, 
and Dolly took five tourists through the rooms. 
I was so busy.... I see now that I ought to have 
gone myself, but she has done it hundreds of 
times....One man has not come out with the 
rest—he seems to have disappeared!” 

"Disappeared in the house? 55 

"That 5 s it. Dolly didn’t notice his absence till 
they were nearly back at the Guard-house. She 
returned of course—hunted, called—no trace! 
Then she came at once to me in the Scriptorium. 
What will Lady Monkton say? 55 Jean looked 
as she felt—decidedly alarmed. 

"Probably he grew tired and turned back 
ahead of all the rest, 55 was Richard’s re-assuring 
suggestion, but she shook her head. 

"Gapper wras in the Guard-house all the time. 
He is certain that no one crossed the court-yard 

_I came to you to know if Lady Monkton left 

w’ord where she might be reached? 55 

"No, 55 Dick answered, "not with me. She had 
been worried by some message she had just re¬ 
ceived by telephone_some business matter. 

I wanted to go with her, but she wouldn't hear 
of it. Naturally, I asked no questions: she ex- 


138 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


pected to return in a day or two. But I 
shouldn’t worry if I were you. Gapper must be 
mistaken.” He spoke lightly, but her look did 
not brighten. 

“That’s not quite all, you see—there’s some¬ 
thing more, Mr. Monkton-Dolly says the 

missing man is the same who went over the 
house several times before. I spoke of it to Mr. 
Ventris. A foreigner, he seemed to be... .Once 
he went through with Mrs. Byrd. I’ve already 
rung up to know what she knows of him—but 
she’s out. I’m sending Gapper with a note to 
tell her we’re hunting him.” 

Dick saw that the affair was serious in her 
eyes, and therefore began to take it more serious¬ 
ly. “Do you fear a plan to rob the house?” he 
enquired gravely. 

“It’s hard to define what I fear exactly—but 
yes, I suppose so. A man might hide himself 
and slip out at night-fall... .That’s the chance. 
Yet I don’t want the police and all that fuss; her 
ladyship would hate it_Mr. Ventris has al¬ 

ways said to deal with any problem by means of 
our own people, as far as possible. But that’s 

what worries me_whom to consult. Hays 

has only been butler since old Basset died—I’ve 
never trusted him—I’ve seen him tipsy more 
than once. Gapper and Fencotes are both too 
old; and $s for Laking the housekeeper, she’d 
be worse then useless... .What do you think we 
ought to do?” 

“First of all,” he answered briskly, “you and 
I must make a thorough search without saying 


BEHIND THE BACCHANTE 


139 


anything to anyone. What time is it—five 
o'clock? Getting dark, too,—have you a light, 
Miss Lang?" 

“There’s an electric torch in the Guard¬ 
house." 

“Well, this will be useful too," and young 
Monkton picked up, from a cigar-stand, a box 
of matches. “If the man’s there, we’ll find him 
... .But I’m simply sure that he left early, un¬ 
observed." 

“Oh, I hope you’re right!" 

The Guard-house wore its customary cheer¬ 
ful aspect, half-office, half-shop, with a little red 
glow of fire all ready to brew Gapper his tea. 
Jean secured the torch: her companion not with¬ 
out bravado picked up the poker and then they 
mounted the painted staircase to the State 
Apartments. These rooms, shown to visitors at 
Shank, were all en suite, with the exception of 
the Chapel and the Great Dining Hall, which 
occupied the ground floor of the main Jacobean 
building. As these had been visited by the tour¬ 
ist party first that afternoon, and Dolly was pos¬ 
itive that the visitor was still with the group 
when it ascended to the second story, Jean felt it 
hardly worth while to enter them again. 

“You see, they offer no place to hide in and 
lead nowhere," she told her companion. “The 
State Rooms have all the valuables in them—and 
the best pictures—the King’s Bed-room too has 
all that argentry." She used the old term 
naturally, adding: “It would be there if any¬ 
where a thief would try for." 


140 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

They entered the Green Gallery. The dusky 
moss-tinted hangings embroidered in faded gold 
thread absorbed the light from the small-paned 
windows—so that they stepped into shadow.... 
But there was no one there. The Mandarin 
Room next gleamed with magnificent gold and 
red lacquer; with the inimitable deep blue of old 
Chinese porcelains and brocades.. .The Queen’s 
Room, where Dick with careful hand lifted 
aside the rose-brocade curtains and bed furni¬ 
ture: no one there. Then they stepped into the 
Antechamber, rich, almost coquettish, with its 
mirrors and sconces—and where through the 
long windows, the afternoon light fell clear. 
Jean opened tiny panelled doors into powder- 
closets—empty... .looked behind the arras, 
opened the doors of vacant presses, lifted the lid 
of carved chests filled with vestments and vel¬ 
vets_nothing. 

“Certainly,” she admitted, “there’s no sign of 
anyone—not even Lady Monkton’s ghost.” 

“Which Lady Monkton walks?” he asked her 
idly: looking up the shaft of a huge chimney to 
the sky. 

“The last, of course; Sir Piers’ first wife. The 
one that drowned herself... .Dolly’s seen her— 
she runs through the rooms carrying her baby.” 

He winced. “She must have been insane, 
poor thing!” he commented, “to take her life, 
like that.” 

“I don’t know,” was Miss Lang’s unexpect¬ 
edly blunt reply. “She had cause enough if all 
they say be true—” then hurriedly she added: 


BEHIND THE BACCHANTE 


141 


“But no doubt it isn’t. I’ve never seen her ghost 
myself... .And I see nobody here and nothing 
be out of placed You must be right—the man 
got tired and slipped off home, and Gapper is 
an ass.” 

“I know I’m right,” said Dick with confidence, 
and smiled at her clearing face in friendly wise. 
Jean, a little shyly, smiled back. She wondered 
if Americans all had this friendly attitude... .It 
made things far, far easier. 

The Rubens Gallery was vacant of human 
presence from end to end. On the walls, the 
shapes of gods and men strove gigantically to¬ 
gether... .the faintest tinge of western gold 
came in through the windows. Beyond, another 
room led into the King’s Bedchamber. Here 
the secretary searched everywhere; the floors, 
the chimney, the cupboard drawers. When 
Dick saw her lift the lids of pot-pourri jars, he 
laughed aloud till Jean caught the infection and 
the stately rooms rang with their mirth.... 
Finally Miss Lang announced that she was satis¬ 
fied—only she must look just here. Here was 
a little door at the head of the King’s bed which 
her key opened, revealing a stairway... .“I’ll be 
running up to the empty rooms above these for 
a glimpse,” said she. “The dust will show if 
anyone has been there. Stay here, Mr. Monk- 
ton, I’ll be down in a minute.” 

“Look thoroughly if it will ease your mind,” 
he told her: and her light foot-fall sounded on 
the steps and above his head. Then silence. 
Meanwhile it had begun to grow dusk; shadows 



142 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

lurked in the corners and behind the curtains of 
the vast bed. The silver tables and jars and 
sconces began to look like lead... .Dick wand¬ 
ered to the window to stare out....Rain fell 
thicker and more steadily over the terrace, the 
hedges, the rose-garden. He took out his watch 
—Yes, the time was getting on and one must be 
soon thinking about dinner-He was not Eng¬ 

lish enough to have been thinking about tea. He 
went to the foot of the little stair and called up. 
No answer—and no sound of a returning foot¬ 
fall. 

Rooms like these were a little eerie—when one 
reflected how the centuries slept in them. What 
if the centuries awoke? Would they be hostile? 
No doubt the Archbishop, the King, the Beauty 
would find little to please them today....He 
smiled at his own fancies, but more in satisfac¬ 
tion to find that his nerves were so far returned 
to normal that these grey shadows and echoing 
rooms and eerie surroundings with ever the 
chance of a lurking burglar somewhere hidden 
in them, brought to him no distaste, but rather a 
sensation of pleasure... .Still, Miss Lang was a 
longtime. 

Wonderful the vista of these galleries, open¬ 
ing one into another, door ever opposite door, 
so that the eye had the perspective so far as it 
could reach, of carved portal, of painting, of tap¬ 
estry. How past pageantry had peopled them 
with gold and scarlet, with color and life! He 
would love to have seen the bright stream of 
costume in the setting of this now empty gal- 



BEHIND THE BACCHANTE 143. 

lery, whose ninety feet stretched before him, 
silent and vacant and dim in the fading grey. 
But —what moved there ? Dick strode to the 
door, straining his eyes....Was the long gal¬ 
lery empty? Or did a shadow come from out 
the shadows—drifting nearer toward him like a 
puff of smoke—but moving as a human being 
moves.... ? And where was Miss Lang? 

He couldn’t wait: he ran. Poker in one hand, 
electric torch in the other, he sprang across the 
Antechamber; across the intervening room and 
his heels sounded on the oaken floor of the Ru¬ 
bens Gallery. For a breath as he ran his eyes 
caught something—a man’s figure—before it 
made a sudden turn aside. The place was emp¬ 
ty; empty clear to the end of it—but Dick had 
seen. He slowed his pace and looked care¬ 
fully on every side. One of the huge cartoons— 
ten feet long at least and almost as high, had 
swung out from its place and what lay behind it 
was not wall but blackness—the blackness of a 
narrow, twisting, turret stair. The steps of it 
went up and curved out of sight, and down and 
down and turned beyond the view. Which way 
had the man gone? 

Dick had no time to consider what to do,— 
barely time indeed to step back from the opening 
and crush himself flat behind the canvas shield. 
His head lay against the bosom of a monstrous 
Bacchante with grapes dangling from her ears.. 
Steps were coming down the stair, preceded by 
a little, dancing white spot made by a torch like 
his own. Dick dared not breathe-he had the 



144 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

poker ready—his feeling was not of fear but of 
pleasurable excitement—a feeling which prop¬ 
erly belonged to the Dick he knew best; and this 
exultation of his natural and recovered reckless¬ 
ness probably accounted for what followed. He 
l held the poker ready for a blow when the burg- 
I lar should come out. The steps passed. When 
he realized the man was going on down, he looked 
quickly, to see that a tall figure with face turned 
into the shadow, a light held low and a parcel un¬ 
der the arm which made a shapeless heap of deep¬ 
er darkness, was already turning the curve of the 
st^ir. Dick held himself for an instant and then 
at once followed. The stair was dark as pitch 
for the curve hid the man’s light and he dared 
not use his own. He clung to the wall, keeping 
his feet on the broad end of the treads and went 
steadily down, down and down. Once his haste 
brought him almost upon the unknown... .but 
he checked in time. Their footfalls went on and 
on as one. 

Finally the stair ended. A stone space re¬ 
vealed itself, semi-circular and with a narrow 
passage running out of it. The man’s light, 
far ahead, gleamed, here and there on the walls, 
while near the ceiling, narrow slits let in a faint 
greyness from without. The place smelt very 
damp and mouldy: it must be the oldest part of 
Shank. Dick knew little of that part of the Nor¬ 
man building—a mass of passages twisting un¬ 
der arches through the altered stonework—but 
he did not stop to think—he followed on. 

Ahead of him the light still moved, much 


BEHIND THE BACCHANTE 


145 


further off since Dick deemed it prudent to hang 
back, while the man in front hastened. Dick 
could no longer see his figure but followed his 
light. 

Then suddenly, away down that black passage, 
something happened... .The light went out— 
there were cries, blows, a scuffle. Dick began 
to run. Towards an indeterminate, entangled 
group that swayed and fought, breathing savage¬ 
ly, but otherwise silent, he hurried, throwing his 
torchlight before him as he came and calling on 
the men to stop... .He had no wish to join the 
quarrel; every wish to find out who they were 
that fought. Poker and all, he was in it before 
he knew, striking and being struck. He dodged 
a blow, hit out wildly, was pulled down. His 
torch was knocked away; darkness followed; 
everything grew confused in the melee. He 
was aware of struggle, of a loud noise like a shot, 
—of a high shriek in the midst of it—then a stag¬ 
gering crash, a fall—nothing. 



CHAPTER XIII 

THE DARKNESS OF THE CRYPT 

U nconsciousness, slowly dispersing 

like a fog, let sensation through at first in 
the form of sharp pain. Dick slowly realized 
this pain and suffering, then the crumpled and 
helpless position in which he lay, then that, vio¬ 
lent though the headache was, he could still 
move and think; and finally that somebody near 
at hand was sobbing and ejaculating. Thick 
darkness enveloped him, hiding the source of 
these sounds. “What’s the matter? Who is 
it?” he asked bewildered. “What in the name 
of—” 

But the sobs cut him short with a cry that was 
more like joy. “Oh, Mr. Monkton—then it is 
you! I hoped it was, but couldn’t be sure. Are 
you badly hurt?” 

“That’s Miss Lang’s voice,” he told himself. 
Feeling partly stupefied, he began to move; 
raised himself, holding his head, and re¬ 
plied: “Why is it so infernally dark? No... my 
head’s beastly but otherwise I’m all right—that 
is, unless I’ve gone blind?” 

146 


DARKNESS OF THE CRYPT 


147 


The agony of this question caused her hur¬ 
ried, “Oh no, no, no! It is pitch dark. We 
must be in a cellar or crypt of some sort. As 
near as I can calculate, it’s in the Norman wing, 
perhaps under the Abbey.” 

“But how did we get here? Wasn't there a 
fight? I seem to remember a racket—?” 

“Yes. We must have fallen through an open 
trap. You went first and broke my fall. I 
thought it was you but it was all so horrible— 
and so pitch dark. 5 ' She made a shaky, brave 
attempt to laugh. “I tell you, it was awful to 
sit here and wonder if it was the burglar that lay 
there and what he would do to me when he came 

tor 

“Gosh—it must have been! Wait a minute 
—” she could hear him move about, stretching his 
arms and legs. “Well, I’m all here it seems— 
pretty well bruised and stiff but still going and 
—Lord, how my head does ache! Are you 
hurt?” 

“My wrist is sprained, I think. I can’t use it.” 

Memory began to come fully back to Dick. 
“How did you get into it? I saw somebody and 
ran—but where were you all that time ?” 

“I went up to the third floor by the little stair. 
I had an idea to look through those empty 
rooms, but I found nothing. When I came back 
you had gone. I passed the little door under 
the Rubens, it was open and I could hear feet 
going downstairs. I must have been just behind 
you. There was a long passage and a row going 
on at the end of it—you had the light in your 
hands, didn’t you?” 


148 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


* “Yes. It was knocked out. And then—?” 

“I ran to see if I could help—they had you 
down—I tried to get the poker and then some¬ 
body pushed me and there was shooting—but 
it was all so blind—!” 

“I remember.” 

“Well, then we fell through the floor together 
v —you underneath. And that’s all.” 

“You were frightfully brave,” the young man 
said warmly. 

“I would have been far more sensible if I 
hadn’t been,” Jean answered miserably enough, 
“we wouldn’t be here now!” 

This was undeniable, yet Dick denied it. “I 
don’t know—they might have turned their at¬ 
tention to you after they’d finished with me. 
What brutes! Did you see how many there 
were?” 

“Two, I fancy—but of course I couldn’t tell. I 
thought—” she checked and broke instead into 
a moan. “My sprain is so bad! What can we 
do, Mr. Monkton? How are we going to get 
out?” 

“Wait a bit,” the young man answered. His 
voice was steady and alive; it comforted Jean, 
notwithstanding the pain of her wrist, and her 
fright and misery. “Don’t give up. We’ll work 
it out somehow. They’ll find us, you know— 
though it may take some hours.” 

“But suppose those—brutes—shut down the 
trap on top of us?” Her voice quivered and 
Richard swallowed down the pang of the un¬ 
pleasant probability. 


DARKNESS OF THE CRYPT 


149 


“I won’t suppose any such thing,” he com¬ 
bated vigorously. “Look here—take a long 
breath—the air in here is stuffy enough, but it’s 
fresh—you can feel it move in a draught. More¬ 
over—it’s dark, I know, but it’s not pitch dark 
now, is it ? I can see a faint greyness; can’t you ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Jean, rather doubtfully. 

“Well, I do. It’s decidedly different in a place 
that’s all shut up. Remember, it’s night outside 
anyway. I’m positive that by morning some 
light will get down here.” He ran on, fighting 
down her panic as best he might. “You’ve been 
so brave—why, you won’t give up now? And 
—wait,” He felt about, moving over the floor. 
“Yes, it must be a crypt: here’s a big pillar—I 
can’t put my arm round it. The roof will be low 
—it must be or we would have been worse hurt.. 
Yes: give me your hand, Miss Lang, feel.... ? 
The trap must be just over our heads, the 
draught from it is plain.” 

Jean did acknowledge she felt a current of air 
that moved against her face. 

“If I only hadn’t held the matches in my 
hand!” she lamented. “If only I’d put them safe¬ 
ly in my pocket!” 

“Have you hunted for them at all?” 

“Do you think it’s worth while?” 

“Yes, I do,” was his cheerful answer. “There’s 
a chance they might have spilled out of the box 
as they fell. My torch, worse luck, would be no 
good, even if I found it. The smash was the last 

thing I really remember.Now, you sit still 

where you are and I’ll hunt awhile on the floor.” 




150 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Jean murmured that the matches would be use¬ 
less without the box, but the truth was that 
she was tired out with pain and terror. That 
long, long period, when she had shuddered there 
in the darkness between the anguish in her 
wrist and the fear of her unknown companion, 
had told on her courage. She crawled to the 
pillar to which Richard's hand guided her and 
rested her back against it. When she spoke to 
him, her voice shook: 

“I’ll—I'll be better—not so silly in a minute. 

But-you'll keep on talking to me while you 

search, Mr Monkton—won't you?" 

“All the time," he replied in a brisk, matter-of- 
fact voice and kept his word; for Jean could hear 
him crawling about on his hands and knees and 
feeling the uneven floor with his fingers, while 
he kept up a running fire of talk which was al¬ 
most gay. And so confident was the voice that 
came to her, now here, now there, out of the 
darkness, so cheerful withal, that Jean was not 
half so surprised as she expected when he an¬ 
nounced—after a long time, it is true—that he 
had found the match box and with three or four 
matches still inside it. 

“Now, this is all right !" was his jubilation. 
“Now we shall see. I'm crawling toward you 
till I feel that draught again. We'll have to 
waste one match on a look around. Perhaps 
there will be some wood lying about which we 
could use as a torch... .Anyway, here goes...." 

There was a scratch, a blinding flash; both 
turned their faces upward; and then the girl 



DARKNESS OF THE CRYPT 


151 


wildly shrieked. At the shriek, Dick dropped the 
match, which went out, but not before he had 
also seen. There was a jet-black oblong just 
over their heads and from that open trap there 
hung down, straight and stiff and dreadfully 
near,— the arm of a man. 

It wasn’t easy to command oneself after that, 
but Dick knew it must be done. He had caught 
the panic gleam in his companion’s eyes and he 
did not hesitate to shake her by the shoulder 
somewhat roughly, while his steady voice said: 
“Look here—you musn’t go off....! Don’t you 
see he can’t hurt us?... .he’s dead. We’ve got 
to get out of this. Get a grip on yourself. I’m 
going to strike another light—keep quiet!” 

Jean obeyed: glad that there was someone to 
obey. She did not scream nor move nor even 
look during what seemed to her the long life of 
another match. She heard Monkton move 
away, light in hand. When the darkness fell 
again, his voice came with it... .“There are some 
empty boxes here—I’m dragging them over. 
Are you still standing right under the trap? 
Stay there, and speak to me so that I’ll know 
where to bring them. The ceiling’s low and I’ll 
pile them up—but I can’t waste any light_” 

The work was heavy, but he managed it. Jean 
held the match for him to pile the boxes one on 
another. When the last step had been placed, 
she saw Dick’s head and body vanish through 
the trap in horrible nearness to that stiff, pro¬ 
truding arm... .There was a struggle—the top 
box fell over— the match went out—but in an 
instant she heard his voice sound overhead: 




152 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“It’s all right—I’m in the corridor. Now 
don’t worry, Miss Lang, it may take me a few 
minutes but I’ll get help and hurry back—don’t, 
don’t be frightened—and don’t move. I’ll not be 
long.” 

As a matter of fact the time was only a few 
minutes, long as it seemed to the girl in the 
crypt. Dick found himself at the end of the stone 
passage and at the entrance to various vague, 
vaulted spaces which he could not identify. 
Except for the huddled body, lying on the edge 
of the open trap-door, his last match showed him 
nothing out of the way. He dared not go ex¬ 
ploring about in the darkness for fear of other 
traps, and he had just decided that the only thing 
to do was to mount the stairs by which he had 
come down, when he became aware, away down 
the long passage, of lights and voices hurrying 
toward him. Much relieved, he gave a shout 
and hurried toward this rescue party, which con¬ 
sisted of three persons. Gapper, with Thomas, 
one of the gardeners, under the apparent leader¬ 
ship of Mrs. Byrd of Chicago. That lady, Dick 
noticed with astonishment, wore an over-coat 
and carried in an efficient manner, an apparently 
genuine revolver. 

“Oh there you are!” was her brisk and matter- 
of-fact greeting. “And is Jean here too?” Mrs. 
Byrd had quite the air of taking Dick, and the 
situation in which she found him, entirely for 
granted. 

To get Jean out of the crypt took some time 
on account of her wrist, but the American woman 


DARKNESS OF THE CRYPT 


153 


surveyed the field and directed the operation as 
though she had been accustomed to such acci¬ 
dents all her life. First, she called down con¬ 
solingly to that miserable heap of a girl, dirty, 
dishevelled and in pain, who crouched there un¬ 
der the welcome light. “You’re all right, Jeanie, 
my lamb! Just wait a minute or two and we’ll 
be having you out in a jiffy. Be patient a min¬ 
ute. We’ve got to get this dead man out of the 
way first!” 

Long afterwards, Dick was moved to laughter 
when he considered in what a comfortable, 
maternal sort of voice and cool, authoritative 
manner, Mrs. Byrd of Chicago dealt with these 
little matters of danger and rescue and death. 
One could imagine the slow, muddling way in 
which the scared old Gapper and the helpless 
Thomas would have managed the affair without 
her! As it was, she took charge of them with 
the quietly steady and repeated directions which 
they best understood. 

“Hold the light down, my man—what are you 
gibbering for? The creature, whoever he is, is 
past hurting you, you know!” 

“Whatever’ll her ladyship say?” Gapper was 
muttering. “Whatever’ll she be doing, Thomas, 
now—there’ll be trouble now, mark’ee!” 

“There’s likely to be lots more trouble for 
everybody if you leave a dead man lying here any 
longer,” Mrs. Byrd rather grimly assured them. 
“Turn him over now... .Ah, that’s it!” 

She plumped down on her knees before the 
fallen body and set her light full upon the face 


154 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


It seemed to Dick that she studied it a very long 
moment, so that his own gaze vividly retained 
the picture of a slight, common, pinch-faced man, 
with eyes in the top of his head, thin, over¬ 
jointed fingers and a blue-black chin. He had 
been shot in the side. 

“Yes: he’s been dead several hours/’ Dick 
heard Mrs. Byrd say; and then she got up quick¬ 
ly again. She was amazingly active and brisk 
in all her movements; and called through the 
trap in her pleasant, steady voice: 

“Now Jeanie, my lamb, look out! ‘We’re com¬ 
ing down for you!” 



CHAPTER XIV 

THE GARLANDED STAIRCASE 

T HREE flights of twisting black oak stair¬ 
case wuth uneven treads, and two long, 
dark passages led to Miss Lang’s room. Up 
these Lady Monkton wearily climbed, the day 
after her return home. She had re-entered 
Shank as a queen makes progress through a 
domain rescued, and with rather a royal air of 
reserved displeasure. Lady Monkton had made 
it very plain that she considered what had hap¬ 
pened due to somebody’s carelessness and 
neglect. There had been long and trying inter¬ 
views with the local police; short, but pithy in¬ 
terviews with Gapper and Dolly, with Laking 
and Hays, with Fencotes and Thomas, with the 
steward, the gardener, the forester and the lodge- 
keeper. There had been enquiries by telegraph 
from the Society of Antiquaries, from the Arm¬ 
orer at Windsor Castle, from the Librarian of 
the Bodleian and from the Directors of the Brit¬ 
ish Museum, to all of whom re-assuring answers 
had been despatched, stating that nothing was 
missing from the collections. 

155 


156 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


No word had come, none at all, from Charles 
Ventris, and Lady Monkton supposed that news 
of the attempted burglary had not yet reached 
him. He was probably motoring in the Italian 
hills, she thought, and under the circumstances 
she much hoped it might not reach him, at least 
until the Coroner's inquest and the worst of the 
excitement was over. 

From top to bottom, the stair-rail was en¬ 
twined with a heavy garland of carved fruits and 
flowers, which lent it an air of permanent festi¬ 
val. Denise Monkton had never failed to look 
with delight upon its luxuriance of fancy and 
perfection of craftsmanship, but today, when her 
hand was impeded by the sharp points of the 
carving, she felt annoyance. It all seemed of a 
piece; there was a prick lying under the garland 
of this beauty, a futility, a weariness in the charge 
of these possessions, which gave her a sudden 
longing to lay it down and rest... .This mood 
was followed by a reactionary sense of her own 
disloyalty. She straightened, and the flame re¬ 
lit in her narrow eyes. 

This American boy, (for so she still instinc¬ 
tively named him) was Charles quite right about 
him?—right, in counting so utterly upon his 
loyalty to them and to Shank? When he had 
told her the story of his adventure the night of 
her return, Denise Monkton had been conscious 
of surprise at his way of telling it—conscious 
that there were things about him she hadn't at 
all realized. In the first place, he had acted 
with quickness and independence: he had had ap- 



THE GARLANDED STAIRCASE 


157 


parently no difficulty in deciding what to do, and 
he had accepted, she thought, rather lightly, the 
responsibility of burglar-hunting on his own ac¬ 
count. Up to that talk, Denise had thought him 
rather silent, a little bewildered, a little unsure— 
which fell in with her own mood of unsureness. 
Now all was changed and she even resented the 
firmness of this stranger in the role of guardian, 
where she herself had never felt firmness!.... 

“But why on earth didn’t you call someone to 
go with you?” she asked him incredulously; and 
he had answered, standing tall and handsome on 
the hearth-rug: 

“I didn’t want anyone. I wanted the fun to 
myself.” 

“Oh, if you regard it as fun—!” 

Dick felt her vexation. “Not the danger to 
Shank—but then I was sure of preventing that .” 

Again she was aware of having met the un¬ 
expected. “But I can’t see why you should be 
so sure—!” 

“Well, I was. There was Miss Lang, you 
know.” 

“Miss Lang is only a girl, besides—” 

“Miss Lang is worth twenty of Hays and Gap- 
per, Lady Monkton, believe me.” 

His calm accent in this statement jarred her; 
also the fact that he seemed wholly to have for¬ 
gotten how she had asked him, caressingly, to 
call her “Denise”. 

Well, she could only hope that Charles was 
right about him; but a shadow of doubt lay still 
across her mind as she ascended the stair. 





158 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


The room she sought was pleasant, with old- 
fashioned furniture and faded chintzes. A 
bunch of flowers stood on the dressing-table and 
the fireplace had been filled with a blossoming 
bough. Soft day came in at the casement. Jean 
Lang lay in bed, where the doctor kept her; for 
she had been a good deal upset by her adventure. 
Her bandaged wrist lay outside the coverlet, 
with a thick, dark plait lying beside it. Her em¬ 
ployer had always thought her plain, with capa¬ 
ble, irregular features that showed more char¬ 
acter than beauty, but she now came forward to 
the bedside with another impression. This busi¬ 
ness-like secretary was just an appealing young 
girl, with a white skin, black hair and clear eyes. 
The discovery was not agreeable to Lady Monk- 
ton; but for the time being it remained below 
the active surface of her mind. 

There was much to hear. With her chair 
drawn to the bedside, the mistress of Shank 
listened in her passive, watchful manner to Jean’s 
story, from the moment Dolly reported the tour¬ 
ist missing, to the moment many hours later 
when Miss Lang was lifted out of the crypt by 
the American lady, to find the supposed burglar 
lying dead beside the open trap-door. 

“They had to take me upstairs first and put 

me to bed... .1 was worn out_not so much 

from the fall and the sprain, but from that hor¬ 
rible time of wondering who was shut up there 
in the dark with me... .and what would happen! 
After that, I believe, Mrs. Byrd sent for the po¬ 
lice.” 


THE GARLANDED STAIRCASE 


159 


Lady Monkton heard all this with a close at¬ 
tention. Then she interrupted... .“But this 
lady?.. ..how came she there? I don't seem 
to understand—?" 

“She had gone over the rooms once accom¬ 
panied by the man who was killed," Jean ex¬ 
plained, “apparently, as she told me yesterday, 
it was by chance largely that she met and talked 
with him... .But Lthought she might know who 
he was and so I tried to ask her by telephone... 
Unfortunately, she was out... .and when she re¬ 
turned, they could not find me. That alarmed 
her, it seems, so she came herself to the house and 
insisted that Gapper and Thomas go over the 
place with her. So they found us." 

“She seems to have had a curiously accurate 
knowledge of Shank," Lady Monkton med¬ 
itatively commented. 

“She has been sketching it, you know. And 
she studied architecture in America, she told 
me." 

“Still, I think it odd," said Lady Monkton; 
and as Jean Lang herself thought it odd, al¬ 
though sure, from some loyal instinct, that all 
was right, she remained silent. 

“That little stair behind the Rubens has been 
shut off for years," Lady Monkton told her. “As 
you saw, it belonged originally to the Abbots' 
House. The Jacobean building began just there. 
It leads down to the brew-house, to the monks' 
shops, to all that old rookery of passages lying 
under the ecclesiastical part of the building. 
There is a way out by a passage under the chapel 
into the crypt—but not where you fell." 



160 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“You think they opened that trap-door by mis¬ 
take ?" Jean asked, fascinated. 

“I don't know," the other answered, still pur¬ 
suing her thoughts. “Sir Piers and I locked that 
door leading to the stairs ten or twelve years ago, 
when the cartoon in the gallery was re-hung.. I 
did not suppose that anyone knew of its exist¬ 
ence, and yet I find that the lock has been oiled 
and shows signs of use. Moreover, a simple 
lever has been attached to the picture so that it 
could be moved from the wall at will. That is 
what worries me—it looks like a plot, like a care¬ 
fully planned scheme to loot the place." 

“But all is right, now you’ve discovered it in 
time." 

“I am not so certain." 

The secretary sat up eagerly in bed to re¬ 
assure her and spoke with animation: 

“But think, my lady! Evidently, the men had 
quarrelled and one shot the other.... .The shot 
was fired just as Mr. Monkton reached them. 
He was running with the torch in his hand—and 
I followed. He was simply splendid—then and 
afterwards... .If he hadn't been so energetic and 
cheerful, we'd have been down there still i" 

“To me, he appears rather rash." Lady Monk- 
ton spoke coldly and lisped a little. This warm 
accent of praise was distasteful to her, but she 
did not show it. 

“You had a horrid experience," she observed 
rising, and her tone was more kindly, “and you 
must stay where you are till you feel quite your¬ 
self, Miss Lang. I've had a thorough search 


THE GARLANDED STAIRCASE 


161 


made through’ all the old part of the house. It’s 
very disagreeable, but there must be an inquest 
and I’m afraid you’ll have to testify—?” 

"Oh I’m much better. I’ll be up tomorrow,” 
Jean protested. "And though I’m sorry, my 
lady, you should have found this so upsetting, at 
least no harm was done—nothing was missing 
or injured?” 

"Nothing at all—and of course, my dear, I 
want you to realize that I appreciate your devo¬ 
tion to Shank. Your promptness probably pre¬ 
vented some irreparable damage to the collec¬ 
tions.” Her tone had warmth at which the other 
flushed. 

"We—Mr. Monkton and I—did the best we 
could,” the secretary replied, and again the easy 
coupling of the names caused Lady Monkton 
distaste. 

"I knew I could count on you,” she returned 
silkily, as she dropped the girl’s hand and moved 
toward the door. There she paused, continuing 
to speak in her peculiar lisping voice, with eyes 
which were no longer half-closed, but open and 
purposeful. 

"By the way, you’ve always been discretion it¬ 
self, but you may not realize how very different¬ 
ly Mr. Richard Monkton has been brought up 
in the States... .where I understand they lack 
our distinctions... .Of course, you’ve heard the 
rumors concerning him? I may as well tell you 
that the evidence is very strong—Mr. Ventris is 
quite, quite sure that the young man is-Un¬ 

der the circumstances—for your own sake chief- 


162 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

ly—you had better discourage any attempts he 
may make at acquaintance. They would be 
natural in his own country, but here, I think, it 
would be disadvantageous and cause you em¬ 
barrassment.” 

“Quite so, my lady: thank you,” the secretary 
made answer, as if she had been taught a form¬ 
ula, as no doubt she had. But when the door 
was shut and her ladyship’s languid foot-fall 
had died out along the corridor, this formula was 
of no more support to Jean than formulae gen¬ 
erally are. She turned her face aside into her 
pillow and shed a few slow tears upon the long 
plait; although just why she felt so humiliated, 
Jean could hardly have told. 

When, however, later in the day, her friend 
Mrs. Byrd climbed the long flights to visit her, 
no sign remained of any tears in her eyes; their 
smile was gay. Mrs. Byrd paused at the door¬ 
way to smile back. She was fashionably 
dressed, with a suitable middle-aged elegance— 
her hat was exactly right, the embroidered lawn 
at her throat and wrists was fastened with a dia¬ 
mond bar, her shoes were to Miss Lang a sheer 
revelation of neatness. Mrs. Byrd herself, as 
she looked at the cambric-clad invalid and the 
few and simple personal belongings scattered 
about the room, was conscious of pity. Loving 
as she did everything fine and delicate and be¬ 
coming, she held an inward image of what Miss 
Lang would have looked like if she had bought 
her clothes in the States. 

“ ’Tisn’t as if she lacked taste,” the American 


THE GARLANDED STAIRCASE 


163 


indignantly reflected. “She looks a lady to her 
finger-tips and her ribbons always match. And 
I've never once seen her yield to the temptation 
of the Englishwoman when in doubt, to add a 
third color—purple for choice!... .No: it’s just 
that the money has to go home, I guess... .and 
what can the poor lamb do on £4 a week?” 

Outwardly, Mrs. Byrd showed no interest in 
dress. She talked about Jean’s experience; and 
the excitement which it had caused in Shank- 
mere ; and what everybody said. 

“They expect me to testify at the inquest day 
after tomorrow... .though it’s little I know to 
help them. My meeting with the man was ac¬ 
cidental_Yes: I’d met him once before—at 

Dulacq’s the great art dealers on Fifth Avenue— 
you know?” 

Jean nodded vigorously: “Rather! They send 
us a letter regularly every quarter, offering to 
buy anything in the house!” 

“I guess they’re greedy, all right. They look 
at Shank with hungry eyes. Well—that fellow 
did work for them—nothing wrong in that .. . . 
He spoke to me in the village once or twice.... 
I never forget a face. We went' through the 
rooms in the same party once... .1 saw nothing 
shady about him.” 

“Nor I.” 

“Who shot him and how did the murderer get 
out?—that’s what we all want to know. Did 
you see anything, Jean?” 

Jean stirred restlessly at the recollection, for 
Mrs. Byrd’s gaze was anxiously fixed on her 
face. 



164 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“Nothing to count. It was all so confused and 
the fight was going on at the end of the passage 
where it was black as pitch. I was trying to 
catch up with Mr. Monkton—neither of us saw 
that open trap-door. I screamed when I fell... ” 
Mrs. Byrd considered this information, but 
did not seem satisfied. 

“You must have been very close to the two 
men. Even in the dark and with the excite¬ 
ment—there were clues, you know. There’s 
touch,—like the feel of a coat sleeve—the sound 
of breathing—or smell—” 

She paused, because a certain horror had come 
into the girl’s face and looked out of her eyes. 

Jean simply shook her head. 

“I guess I’ll be moving on after the inquest,” 
the elder lady resumed with a brisk change of 
subject and tone. “After all, I came into the 
country to rest. These beautiful old places 
seem to be peaceful only on the outside. I 
didn’t bargain for a murder and a Coroner’s in¬ 
quest —not exactly! That gun that scared you 
so, my lamb—came in pretty handy now—didn’t 
it?” 

Jean laughed and agreed. “And yet,” said 
she, “it was an odd thing to fall out of a lady’s 
color-box!” 

“So the vicar said. I’d a long sermon from 
him on the subject,” said Mrs. Byrd; “firstly, 
secondly, and thirdly—made me feel quite at 
home, as if I was in the old wooden Congrega¬ 
tional Church, where I used to be taken as a 
child. It was all to the effect that ladies didn’t 



THE GARLANDED STAIRCASE 


165 


carry guns in England—that it wasn’t done. 
He intimated ’twas unnecessary as well as in¬ 
elegant. I told him I’d carried mine all through 
the wild west and never came so near to need¬ 
ing it as I did that evening. I told him I guessed 
that, since the War, England would be the bet¬ 
ter for some kind of a Vigilante Committee. 
Things seemed sort of slack.” 

“He must have loved that!” 

“He did. Oh, he kept polite in that haw-haw 
way of his—but it hurt his feelings, and I’m go¬ 
ing to move on.” She bent toward Jean and 
spoke more gravely, “I’m going to leave you my 
address, my lamb,” said she. “Things may get 
mixed up, and if they do and you need help, why 
just don’t say beans to anybody, but come 
straight along to me. I’m a funny person about 
happening to be ’round in the nick of time.” 

“You certainly are,” was Jean’s warm and 
grateful response; “but surely the trouble is over 
now. The inquest will tell us everything we 
want to know about that wretched burglar—and 
then everything will settle down and go on as 
it did before.” 

Mrs. Byrd arose, picked up her graceful wrap 
and settled it over her shoulders. Her manner 
and speech were as direct and straightforward 
as they usually were, with an additional empha¬ 
sis of seriousness. “Between you and me, I 
don’t expect things will go on as they did before,” 
she observed. “I’ve looked around since I’ve 
been in this neighborhood and I’m like Biddy, 
your old nurse; I don’t think Shank’s a healthy 


166 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


place of residence... .Oh, yes, I know! They 
put in drains and electric light during the four¬ 
teenth century, but there's a lack of moral drain¬ 
age and moral electric lighting there at the pres¬ 
ent. Too many trap-doors into the cellar, in my 
opinion." 

A faint color touched the girl's cheeks, and her 
frank eyes fell. 

“Moreover," Mrs. Byrd pursued as she moved 
toward the door, “there won't be much to learn 
from the Coroner's inquest, not while it takes 
place just where the gates of Shank open into 
the village. I know what you will say. Eng¬ 
land rouses, of course, every once in awhile and 
paws the air and gets mad and makes a big fuss; 
but not over a solitary and friendless burglar.... 
if he was a burglar.... No, my lamb; the inquest 
will not tell us what we want to know—at least, 
not this inquest!" 

With which cheerful prophecy, she took her 
departure. 


CHAPTER XIV 

TESTIMONY TO THE CHARACTER OF 
PAUL STERN, DECEASED 

M RS. Byrd’s prediction was fulfilled. Very 
little that was not known already, came out 
at the inquest, and to what did come out she was 
herself the chief contributor. 

The inquest took place in what had been the 
old refectory, a large room with a trestle-table, 
which had been furnished for the occasion. Ac¬ 
cess to this room was to be had from the quad¬ 
rangle, so that the persons concerned might go 
in and out without enroaching on the privacy of 
the family. Every care, in fact, was taken that 
they should not do so, and Fencotes had sta¬ 
tioned an under-gardener at the house entrance 
to turn back any person who showed signs of 
straying in that direction. Dick saw this decor¬ 
ous congregation making its way across the 
court, men and some women, evidently citizens 
of Shankmere, and all bearing themselves with a 
befitting gravity. Strangers could be marked 
by the curiosity they showed in their surround¬ 
ings.... He saw the doctor, in close talk with 
167 


168 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


the Coroner; members of the local police; Mrs. 
Byrd, very much to be picked out from the 
crowd by the finish and elegance of her dress; 
Jean Lang with her wrist still in a sling... .All 
these persons and some others walked across to 
the door of the refectory and Dick followed them 
at a little distance and placed himself in a corner 
of the room. The proceedings, quite apart 
from the mystery with which they were con¬ 
cerned, struck him as characteristic. 

The Coroner was a pursy man, whose horizon 
had been all his life dominated by the Great 
House, standing on its hill above the town. If 
it was true that modern movement had deprived 
that Great House of its ancient feudal power and 
influence, yet this had been largely counteracted, 
so far as the village was concerned, by the 
heightened power gained through the reputa¬ 
tion of Shank as a museum and art gallery. 
Shankmere had no industries of its own; but 
under the wing of this reputation, there had 
sprung up a certain activity for its inhabitants. 
Shops of so-called antiques flourished in the vil¬ 
lage: artists, at certain seasons of the year, filled 
the inns and cottages, and thus the business life 
of the community had come to centre in its chief 
ornament... .To the English present at the in¬ 
quest, nothing was more natural and inevitable 
than the Coroner’s attitude, who seemed more 
struck by the impertinence of an intruder’s get¬ 
ting himself killed in the very bowels of Shank, 
than by the mystery of who had killed him. 
This insult to the Great House affected the Jury 


THE CHARACTER OF PAUL STERN 169 


also, all typical citizens of the place. They 
talked in undertones about the present era of 
after-war violence, intimating that the person to 
blame for the incident was probably Mr. Lloyd- 
George. Mrs. Byrd found all this interesting, 
very interesting indeed: to Dick Monkton it was 
astounding and amusing. 

The doctor, who had been summoned to exam¬ 
ine the body, was the first to give his evidence. 
He stated that death had been caused by a revol¬ 
ver-bullet fired at close range and had evidently 
occurred about five hours before. The clothing 
showed there had been a struggle, but search 
could reveal no trace of a weapon, which the 
murderer must have retained. The police had 
made an exhaustive examination of all the lower 
storeys of Shank, the chapel, crypts and cellars, 
but could find nothing out of order, nor any 
trace of the means by which the murderer had 
entered or escaped. Stone floors revealed no 
footprints; nothing in the rooms or galleries was 
missing, or even disturbed. About a yard from 
the open trap-door, a piece of worn and dirty 
parchment had been picked up. Faint traces of 
lettering had been found on it, but no tests re¬ 
vealed anything of importance. The Coroner 
pointed out that there was no reason to suppose 
it had been brought there recently: it might have 
been lying there for fifty years. That portion of 
the old ecclesiastical building was seldom entered 
by any of the staff at Shank. At this point a ro¬ 
mantic Juror interrupted to suggest that the 
parchment probably contained a cryptogram, lo- 


170 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


eating a hoard of treasure, which doubtless ac- 
couted for the affair. This caused an audible 
smile to go about the crowded room and many 
persons felt themselves in sympathy with the 
Juror, and regretful when the Coroner nipped 
this engaging theory in the bud. The sheet of 
parchment bore no cryptogram, nor any secret 
writing and the Coroner did not fail to add, a 
trifle dryly, that there was treasure enough at 
Shank in the open to account for any attempt at 
robbery. 

Facts about the dead man had been easily ob¬ 
tained, from the harmless contents of his own 
pockets and through the American Consul. Much 
to the surprise of the police, these facts were neg¬ 
ative; for he had no criminal record. His name 
was Paul Stern and he had no known alias. His 
age was stated to be thirty-eight. He had landed 
in New York in 1904, a French citizen: and in 
1912 he became a naturalized American. For 
nearly ten years he had been employed by the 
firm of A. Dulacq Freres, the great picture and 
curio dealers, as a skilled cleaner and restorer of 
fine paintings. His record with them had been 
excellent and he left them at the outbreak of war, 
ostensibly to join up in his native land. In 1918, 
he was apparently in Washington for a time, 
though in what capacity was by no means clear. 
For a few months of 1919, Stern had returned 
to Dulacq’s in prosperous circumstances and 
had filled the place of an ill employee; after which 
they had lost sight of him. A long cablegram 
from the head of the New York firm assured the 



THE CHARACTER OF PAUL STERN 171 


Consul in the most positive manner of the good 
character which Paul Stern had borne while in 
their employ and of the respect which all there 
had felt for him. To whatever the circumstances 
surrounding his mysterious death might point, 
the firm of Dulacq personally could not believe 
that Paul Stern was or had ever been a thief . . . 
From the American Consul in London it was 
learned that Stern had arrived in France during 
March; that his papers were in order; that 
he had appeared in England some weeks later 
and had conducted himself as a quiet and orderly 
sight-seer. He had registered at the Commercial 
Hotel at Shankmere some weeks previous to his 
death and had given himself out as an artist, 
visiting the places and parks in the neighbor¬ 
hood, where he generally carried a sketch-book. 
His accent was foreign; his ways tranquil; his 
payments extremely regular. Whoever would 
have thought, said the landlord pathetically, that 
such a quiet-like chap would come to such a 
h'awful end? 

Mrs. Byrd was then called upon to tell what 
she knew. She gave her evidence in a clear and 
orderly manner, stating that her name was Geor- 
giana Henderson Byrd, widow, of Chicago, Ill¬ 
inois, travelling in Great Britain for pleasure. 
She had encountered Paul Stern and had recog¬ 
nized him as an employee of Dulacq’s, who had 
been asked to give his opinion on the genuine¬ 
ness of a picture she was selling to them in 1919. 
He had been sent for to explain the condition of 
the painting to her, and she had been struck by 


172 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


his unusual intelligence. She had wondered at 
the time, she added, to find a man of high abilities 
and good presence in a subordinate position. At 
Shankmere she had encountered Stern first in the 
street. When they chanced to meet and go over 
Shank together, she had led him to talk of the 
pictures they saw and over which he was enthus¬ 
iastic. There her knowledge of him ended, and 
the face of the dead man when she beheld it, had 
been a painful surprise. The rest of Mrs. Byrd’s 
tesimony merely concerned Miss Lang’s tele¬ 
phone call to her, and her sudden alarm when, on 
hastening to reply to it, she heard that Miss Lang 
was missing. When asked why she had taken 
upon herself, personally, to make the search, she 
caused a smile by saying that she guessed they 
were like that where she was brought up—they 
didn’t believe in putting off a rescue till it was too 
late to do anything but ’phone the undertaker. 
Besides she had a hunch that something was 
wrong somewhere in that museum. 

“Mr. Richard Monkton!” 

The name caused a little breeze to go around 
the room; necks were craned to see the Claimant, 
of whom everyone had heard so much. Respect, 
however, for the family, did not permit the Cor¬ 
oner to ask the young man any questions, apart 
from those necessary to establish his identity. He 
answered them in a brief and reticent manner. 

“You are Mr. Richard Monkton, late of Phil¬ 
adelphia in the United States?” 

“I am.” 



THE CHARACTER OF PAUL STERN 173 


“Are you the present Claimant to the Monk- 
ton estate?” 

“Yes.” 

“Please tell the Jury what you know about the 
matter under discussion.” 

Dick narrated his adventure fully and frankly. 
The audience thought him decidedly handsome, 
if a trifle thin and pale, and listened to him atten¬ 
tively, although some people had the same diffi¬ 
culty as in the case of the previous witness, in 
following his transatlantic accent and locutions. 
Additional importance was attached to his testi¬ 
mony, since he was the only person to see the 
dead man in life just before the conflict; if indeed 
it were the dead man he had seen on the stairs 
behind the Rubens Gallery. He had also wit¬ 
nessed the actual struggle, though in the dark¬ 
ness he had made out little; all was vague, con¬ 
fused and furious; a fight, a shot, a fall. He did 
not own a revolver himself: if he had he would 
not have taken the poker which was found in the 
crypt beside him. 

Miss Lang, the secretary, followed this witness 
and supported his statements in every particular. 
She had applied to him in Lady Monkton’s ab¬ 
sence, she said, because he was a member of the 
family. Her own arrival on the scene of the mur¬ 
der was just as Mr. Monkton’s torch went out. 
She therefore saw little but she definitely heard 
the shot, a few seconds before she fell through 
the trap. For a long while, in the darkness of the 
crypt, she did not know what manner of man was 
there imprisoned with her. A movement of sym- 


174 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

pathy and horror was excited by this picture, and 
even the Coroner was impressed. Jean Lang-, 
moreover, was very well known in the village, and 
the room was filled with her friends. Before dis¬ 
missing her, the Coroner and the Jury asked her 
a number of questions relating to the collections. 

“Have attempts on Shank been made before ?” 
she was asked. 

“Not since I have been at work here,” was the 
answer. “There was more than one, I believe, 
during Sir Piers’ life-time.” 

“Was Lady Monkton apprehensive of such at¬ 
tempts?” 

“Lady Monkton has always been anxious. So 
has Mr. Ventris. Since the War especially.” 

“Prices have risen for such things since the 
War; have they not?” 

“Enormously. South America and the States 
have been eager buyers.” 

“What is the value of the collections?” 

This question was asked by a Juror who kept 
the best antique shop in the town, and who evi¬ 
dently longed to raise a vision of opulence by the 
reply. He looked about on his fellow Jurors im¬ 
portantly. 

“That,” the witness said in her clear voice, 
“would be hard to answer. They are extremely 
valuable, but the value is doubtless heightened 
by their setting. Scattered, some of the items 
would decline in importance, which makes it dif¬ 
ficult to name a total.” 

“Still, there are ^veil-known pictures and so 
forth?” 


THE CHARACTER OF PAUL STERN 175 


“Oh yes, of course. The Manuscript Collec¬ 
tion is the finest in Europe. The ‘Great Hopp- 
ner’ has been valued at £50,000: two of the Rey¬ 
nolds at £30,000 each, and there are several other 
paintings, among them a Leonardo—which are 
unique. Besides, we have three chef d’ oeuvres of 
Cellini which are almost priceless.” 

The Juror who had asked the question was 
gratified by the stir of interest which these sums 
aroused. 

“I take it,” the foreman asked Jean, “you will 
be having many offers from collectors in foreign 
parts?” 

“Such offers come every week,” the witness 
told him; “I had almost said every day.” 

Some time was then taken up in a discussion of 
the existing evidence concerning the way in 
which the murderer had escaped. Old plans and 
maps were produced, and the Superintendent of 
Police tried to make them clear to the Jury with 
the assistance of a stumpy pencil and a heavy 
thumb. That part of Shank in which the crime 
had occurred being of old stone, defied attempts 
to trace the passage of any person through it. 
There were no foot-prints anywhere, nor finger¬ 
prints ; nothing had been dropped. So long had it 
been since anyone in the house had gone there, 
that nobody could say whether the trap-door 
through which Dick and Jean had fallen had been 
recently opened, or had stood open for a century. 
All other doors and windows were exactly as they 
had been; and they furnished more than one way 
of escape for a person with knowledge. The com- 


176 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


plete lack of evidence was the remarkable feature 
of the case. 

The testimony of Gapper, Dolly and Thomas 
brought out nothing new and closed the proceed¬ 
ings. Dolly was positive in her identification of 
the dead man, as the same who had gone over 
the house several times before. Until he disap¬ 
peared therein, she noticed nothing out of the 
way in his behavior. 

Never had there been a case in his experience, 
the Coroner observed, where there was so little 
to go upon. And while the unfortunate man had 
borne a good character and had come to an end 
regrettably mysterious, yet there was no blinking 
the fact that his death occurred in a spot where 
he had no business to be. One could only leave 
the mystery to that Higher Power from Whom 
nothing was hid. In rendering thanks to this 
Higher Power, the Coroner did not openly say 
he thought him careless, since if mysterious, 
much about the affair had been arranged by 
Providence to spare Lady Monkton further in¬ 
convenience; but that was what he meant. The 
usual verdict on such occasions was brought in; 
and the gathering was allowed to disperse. 

The inquest left Dick curiously uneasy. There 
had not been a shadow of doubt in his mind that 
the dead man would be found to have a criminal 
record, because such a job as robbing Shank was 
not likely to be attempted by an amateur. Yet 
the proceedings had thrown into relief the fact 
that no actual evidence of attempted robbery ex¬ 
isted, other than the unknown’s presence where 


THE CHARACTER OF PAUL STERN 177 


he should not have been. Stern had been alone 
in the museum rooms for more than an hour be¬ 
fore their glimpse of him—yet nothing among all 
the treasures in these rooms showed sign of dis¬ 
turbance. What if the reason back of Stern’s 
action were not robbery at all ? Plainly, to Dick’s 
mind, came the idea that, if robbery were in¬ 
tended, it was robbery in the future.. 

The slow English summer had fully unfolded 
her multi-colored wings under an exquisite sky. 
For the first time since his coming into the coun¬ 
try, the young man felt a stirring toward the 
outside, a desire to get beyond the stately gar¬ 
dens and out of the dominating shadow cast by 
the towers of the Great House. He set forth 
briskly, first across the Park and paddock; then 
out along the yellow high road. As he went, 
swinging ahead at a good pace and with a pleas¬ 
ant sense of recovered strength. Dick’s mind 
occupied itself with equal vigor, moving along 

the tortuous pathway of these problems. 

Suppose the visit of Stern to the recesses of 
the old* building had been one of reconnaissance 
merely? To Dick’s mind, the incident seemed to 
.wear this aspect far more naturally than the first 
construction they had placed upon it. But 
in that event the danger was by no means over: 
and a very disagreeable and alarming sugges¬ 
tion was at once introduced^ No clue of any kind 
existed to the personality of the second man, the 
one who was probably, if not certainly, respon¬ 
sible for Stern’s death. Such a plot as Dick sus¬ 
pected would undoubtedly require an accomplice 




178 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


within the house. M. Charles’s last words to him 
came to his mind: “It’s not from without that 
danger will come.” 

Those dozens of servants—he did not yet 
know all their names! Why did they need so 
many? In his naif Americanism he decided that 
it would work so much better if they had half 
the number, paid them twice the amount of 
wages and made them work a great deal harder! 
He did not realize that he was here facing the 
last barrier of feudal tradition—the one that no¬ 
body had been ever able to change. Here and 
there in that complicated hierarchy, men and wo¬ 
men were still to be found with the soul of the 
true retainer—faithful, honorable, self-respecting 
and devoted to a chief. But the majority, espec¬ 
ially since Ihe War, had all the feudal vices and 
none of the feudal virtues. They saw the ruling 
class in decadence and waited with a patient hos¬ 
tility to take advantage of their fall. They were 
more than ever the vulture class. 

Shank had never been fortunate in its staff. 
Jean Lang had once told Dick this, adding that 
it was because the masters of Shank were more 
interested in things than in people. Shank in the 
past had been indifferent to its tenants and de¬ 
pendents, and now these were more than indiffer¬ 
ent to Shank. Lady Monkton had been obliged 
to go outside her own people for maids and foot¬ 
men: she was unpopular: “ ’Er ladyship don’t 
’eed.” She was a stranger, and Charles Ventris 
was a stranger, and neither of them were under¬ 
stood. 



THE CHARACTER OF PAUL STERN 179 


Dick felt he did not like the servants with 
whom he came into contact; something in their 
manner seemed wrong to him somehow. Already 
he had been openly ogled by an under-housemaid, 
much to his discomfort. The butler Hays struck 
him as secretive and probably profligate; Fen- 
cotes, the head gardener, was surly, Thomas 
treated one with a half-insolent servility; there 
was a smooth-faced, evil-eyed foreign maid of 
Lady Monkton’s, whom one encountered in the 
passages... .Dolly was a decent, respectable, 
modest girl: Gapper was just an old fool. In the 
interior of the Great House there were others, 
many others, who stared at him or scurried away 
at his appearance—surely, there was every 
chance among such a crew for treachery from 
within! 

Occupied with these thoughts and conclusions, 
and with a heavy sense of responsibility dark¬ 
ening his mood, Dick had walked for more than 
an hour when he reached a scattered group of 
houses, the little village of Endwise. Here, feel¬ 
ing thirsty, he paused for a moment, and stepped 
into the commercial room of the Spotted Doe. 
While he drank his beer, he looked around 
him. 

The place was old-fashioned and shabby, but 
clean and somehow comfortable. Level sun¬ 
shine came pleasantly in and lit up the posters 
of Johnnie Walker and the Putney Pet. A 
bustling bar-maid wiped glasses behind the 
counter: a stoutish man, with heavy cheeks and 
small eyes, gave the visitor greeting with some 



180 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


official remarks about the weather. The old grey 
cat, curled up in the window-seat; slept in the 
sunshine. Only two other guests were present; 
a small person, neatly dressed, with a green bag, 
suggestive of employment in one of the minor 
branches of the law, and a good-looking, big man 
of middle years, with heavy moustache, gaiters 
and a thick stick, who like Dick, was apparently 
resting after a country walk. He stuck out his 
long legs in front of him and retired behind a 
newspaper, turning its pages so that the young 
man could not see, save in glimpses, the face 
behind them. Meanwhile, the landlord and the 
man who looked like a solicitor’s clerk were oc¬ 
cupied in friendly interchange: 

“They held an inquest at Shank this morning, 
didn’t they?” the former was asking, and Dick, 
not unwillingly, listened for the answer. 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE PRINCESS’S NUT 

H A Y—they did,” drawled the other. I stopped 
in for a bit myself. ’Twere a good crowd¬ 
like.” 

“Did you now? And did you hear aught?” 
enquired the landlord of the Spotted Doe. 

“Not much come out but what was in the 
papers,” the other assured him; “seems the dead 
man was some sort of foreigner—had no business 
in Shank House, so they said. But none knows 
who killed him and none’s like to know, I’m 
thinking.” 

“Odd doings at the Great House,” the innkeep¬ 
er commented, leaning his elbows on the counter 
and shaking his head. “Quite a bit of talk 
through the countryside, now and again.” 

“What sort of talk?” This question was 
asked with no more than civil curiosity, but the 
landlord of the Spotted Doe once again slowly 
shook his head. 

“I dunno—just talk,” was all he vouchsafed in 
answer and busied himself in straightening a row 
of glasses. The solicitor’s clerk, wise in the hab- 
181 


182 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


its of his country-folk, allowed the pause to 
lengthen while he smoked on placidly. The big 
man sitting in a corner turned the page of his 
newspaper. Imagination might have filled the 
silence with the slow rotation of the landlord’s 
thoughts, bringing them round inevitably to the 
point of speech. 

“I’ve some of ’em dropping in from the Great 
House most evenings,” he began again with a 
touch of pride: “The steward and Mr. Fencotes 
and sometimes Mr. Hays, the butler. They go 
where they’re treated right—they do! Come 
to think, Mary,”—he turned to his assistant 
who was finishing up the tumblers—“it were Mr. 
Hays and no other stopped in here the evening of 
the murder, weren’t it? He had a friend with 
him—soft-spoken chap with a stiff neck and head 
on one side. What was his name now?” 

“Coles,” said the bar-maid shortly. 

“That’s it—Mr. Coles,” the landlord contin¬ 
ued. “They had a glass or two, and a pipe. 
Stayed quite awhile, they did. Her ladyship was 
in London.” 

“Stayed till Mr. Hays was rung up from the 
Great House ’count of their finding that chap 
dead in the cellar,” the barmaid asserted, quite 
aware of the dramatic value of her announce¬ 
ment. “It did give Mr. Hays a turn, that it did.” 

“And well it might!” her employer solemnly 
supplemented. The solicitor’s clerk agreed that 
it might well indeed have given the butler a turn 
—such news as that coming all of a sudden-like! 
and then the barmaid carried her laden tray of 


THE PRINCESS’S NUT 


183 


glassware out of the room. But conversation be¬ 
tween the two men was not interrupted by her 
departure. 

“Queer doings at Shank—ever since Sir Piers 
came in. He brought strangers with him and 
strange ways, and things have never been what 
you call quiet-like since.There’s this claim¬ 

ant now, Sir Piers’ son, what they say the little 
lady didn’t drown—nobody knows the rights of 
it.” 

“I don’t deny we’ve heard the same down our 
way,” the clerk agreed, interested. 

“Just one thing after t’other at Shank,” the 
landlord ruminated; “for better than thirty years 

nothing but upsets.That Welshman Sir 

Piers brought, he would be finding things, old 
books and such, hidden away in the Abbot’s 
House. They sold things and they bought things 
—they were everlastingly at it... .Then her poor 
ladyship’s end; (and they do say she had cause, 
if all were known!) and now a Claimant and a 
murder, and the Lord knows what! There were 
a chap in here, long of yesterday,” said the 
speaker warming to his theme, “what said they 
ought to change the old motto: said it ought to 
be, 'Shank smells rank,’ so he did!” 

This speciman of local wit caused a slow 
rumble of laughter in the teller; but the solic¬ 
itor’s clerk was by way of being a philosopher. 
“Oh well, ’tis so everywhere,” he commented; 
“changes since the War, and in these big folks, 
particular changes. They ain’t got the hold they 
had, nor yet the power—they’ve been hit—that’s 




184 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


what they’ve been. I take it the goings on at 
Shank are the same in other big places all over 
the country.” 

The landlord dissented from this easy view 
and declared that the state of affairs was peculiar 
to Shank. “Wherever they’ve let in foreigners 
’twill happen,” was his final opinion. At this 
point, Dick, having finished his drink, and hav¬ 
ing really no excuse to linger, got up, paid his 
score and left the room. The big man with the 
moustache waited until young Monkton had 
gone, then he too rose and followed. 

He was one of those heavy, large-framed men 
who can astonish the observer by putting on at 
will a high degree of speed. When this stranger 
emerged into the road, young Monkton was 
nearly out of sight; yet he was not breathing 
any the faster when he finally came up with Dick 
and addressed him by name. 

“Mr. Monkton,” said he, “may I have a word 
with you?” 

Richard wheeled. His thoughts since leaving 
the bar-parlor had been uneasy ones and he 
glanced at the stranger with a touch of this same 
uneasiness. 

“Do I know you?” he asked, “I don’t seem to 
remember—” 

The big man touched his forehead in explana¬ 
tion. “I saw you at the inquest. You have the 
Monkton brows,” he admitted. “I won’t keep 
you; I’ll just walk beside you, if I may.” 

He had a quiet way of speaking, a rather slow 
and very sensible manner, and the appearance of 


THE PRINCESS’S NUT 


185 


a man of business. His non-committal face was 
typical of his class. His eyes were remarkably 
steady. There was nothing offensive in the re¬ 
quest or in the way it was made; nor could Dick 
object when the other fell into step beside him. 
They walked on together some paces in silence. 

“I take it you heard our friend—the landlord— 
a few minutes back?” the stranger began, switch¬ 
ing the grass at the roadside with his stick. “So 
did I, of course. What did you think of it?” 

“I don’t know,” Dick confessed, “that I 
thought anything much. I’ve not been very long 
in England. But may I ask who—?” 

“—I am? There’s no secret about that,” said 
the elder. He took a card from his wallet and 
handed it to his companion. The name upon it 
was that of Peter Godston, Criminal Investiga¬ 
tion Department, New Scotland Yard, Whitehall. 
“I came down from London yesterday,” he con¬ 
tinued, “and attended this inquest, where I 

heard you testify.Then I took a walk 

about, to hear what people thought. ’Tis an 
odd business, Mr. Monkton. The local police 
don’t seem to get very far in it. It has certain 
features—but no doubt they have already oc¬ 
curred to you? I see they have.” 

Evidently he was a much quicker mind than 
appeared, and Dick therefore, merely nodded. 
“I told all I know at the inquest, if that’s what 
you want,” he said. “I kept nothing back which 
could help the police.” 

“No: I don’t think you kept anything back,” 
the other agreed. “It wasn’t that ... .1 wanted 



186 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


really to know if you got the same sort of impres¬ 
sion as I did.Now you heard those two 

men—they’re not the only ones. I’ve stopped 
in at half a dozen places in and around Shank- 
mere and the talk is all the same. There’s no 
respect for the Great House down here; there 

seems a feeling that something’s wrong. 

How do you account for it?” 

The question was not an easy one to answer 
but it was asked in such a straightforward man¬ 
ner and in such good faith, that it roused no 
opposition in Dick. 

“I don’t know,” he replied, as frankly. “I’ve 
been in England only a month or two and I’ve 
heard few people talk. Don’t they all gossip 
about these old houses and families? Does it 
mean anything more than that?” 

“Not quite in the same way......The great 

families still have their place, despite all the 
talk about democracy, Mr. Monkton. They’re 
firmly entrenched, as you’ll find out if you really 
are Monkton of Shank. My experience is that 
in places like this, there’s a deal of loyalty left 
to the big house and to the family that owns 
it. But there’s not a bit at Shankmere, appar¬ 
ently.And it’s true that a series of odd hap¬ 

penings have set folks agog.” 

“But some of them were twenty years ago!” 

“Twenty years is nothing in the country¬ 
side.” 

“Have you talked to Lady Monkton?” 

The big man waited a few minutes before 
answering this question. “Not yet,” he ad- 







THE PRINCESS’S NUT 


187 


mitted in his manner of slow frankness. “There’s 
work to be done first, and besides—I fear her 
ladyship may resent the line of enquiry. But 
I’d be grateful if you’d give me your impres¬ 
sions—in confidence of course.” 

“If mine are of any use—but I’m after all an 
outsider as yet.” 

“That’s why they’ll be valuable.” 

Dick hesitated, uncomfortably. “I suppose,” 
he said, “that some of it springs from the fact 
that Lady Monkton and Sir Piers’ agent, Mr. 
Ventris, are so wrapped up in the collections that 
they don’t pay much attention to the village. No 
doubt the village doesn’t like it.” 

“I hear that the servants are rather a shifty 
lot. You agree, don’t you?” and again Dick 
had the feeling that this big man was quick in 
drawing an inference from another’s expression. 
“Where could one get hold of Mr. Ventris? He’s 
away, I hear.” 

“I can’t tell you that. He’s motoring, and 
Lady Monkton thinks he must have missed the 
news so far. He’s in Italy.” 

“Quite so—thanks. I’d like a talk with him. 
So you think that the collections take Lady 
Monkton’s mind off the things such ladies usu¬ 
ally bother about? Does she worry over them?” 

“She is nervous about their safety, certainly.” 

“Yet she fills the place with the scum of em¬ 
ployment offices! That butler of hers, Hays,— 
he was at the inquest, standing near me at the 
back. I’d a word with him—and he struck me 
as a queer ’un.” 


188 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

Dick felt that the term covered much, nor 
could he deny that his own impressions were 
not very different; but he was chiefly occupied 
in wondering what the big Mr. Godston’s pur¬ 
pose was in telling him so many of his views. 
Dick had always supposed that the police 
wanted you to tell them things, yet this person 
seemed rather simply communicative. They 
walked on together side by side in silence for a 
few moments and the Scotland Yard man did 
not break it until the limits of the Monkton 
property had been reached. A footpath crossed 
the Park here, making a short cut to the house, 
and therefore the stranger came to a stand. 

“Well, good-bye to you, Mr. Monkton, and 
many thanks,” he said, still in that direct, rather 
obvious manner which had somewhat puzzled 
his companion, bespeaking, as it did, some pre¬ 
vious knowledge or acquaintance. “Better keep 
that card of mine—y’may find you hear some¬ 
thing and it’d turn out useful. I’m always at 
your service, if you want me.” 

Dick thanked him, bade him farewell, and 
started home alone on the footpath, on which 
however, he had hardly made three strides be¬ 
fore he heard the other’s voice call to him. At 
once he turned his head. 

“I just wanted to say—that I hope things 
will turn out in your favor in due time,” said 
Mr. Peter Godston, quite without any smile, and 
in fact with a shade of expression in his rosy, 
broad face which Dick could not readily define. 
“I mean about the succession, you know!” 



THE PRINCESS’S NUT 


189 


“Oh,— that !” said young Monkton, coloring a 
little. “That’s all so new to me that I’ve not 
dared to hope it’s all true—as Mr. Ventris and 
the lawyers say it is.” 

“No doubt—stranger things have happened, 
Mr. Monkton, than a woman’s drawing back at 
the last minute from drowning her child!” 

Dick again winced at that reference—hating 
it as he had done from the first, but he felt the 
kindly intention and turned off his wince with 
some half-joke about his being a Yankee—and 
too many of them in England already: 

“Seems to me we’re over the whole island, and 
now another at Shank—pretty hard on the 
Great House!” he said with a genuine, if boyish 
embarrassment. 

“Oh, well—they’re better than the Germans, 
if you come to that,” Godston responded to 
Dick’s surprise; “and as to Shank,”’the man 
added dryly, “I think ’twould be a bit healthier 
for a change!” 

As he crossed the Park under the oaks, Dick 
reflected that this remark had distinctly con¬ 
veyed an impression less complimentary to 
himself than unflattering to his hostess. On 
her account he felt that he ought to have re¬ 
sented it. The impression added another straw 
to that day’s unpleasant gleanings and kept him 
deep in thought as he walked. Suddenly, a short 
distance ahead, he saw Jean Lang, also headed 
for the Great House and evidently coming from 
the village. He quickened his pace. 

In the early afternoon, Miss Lang had gone 


190 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


to Shank Paddock, to bid her American friend 
good-bye. That lady, having decided upon de¬ 
parture, wasted no time, and Jean found her in 
the midst of her belongings, ready to take the 
afternoon train. The sight was depressing to 
the girl and she said so. 

“ ’Twill be dull without you,” she declared; 
“nobody to rub off my bad edges on! I shall 
miss your jolly American ways.” 

“You’ll have my countryman, the Monkton 
boy,” Mrs. Byrd consoled her, but Jean shook 
her head. 

“You forget how busy I am,” she replied un¬ 
comfortably; “and beside, I am not to be friends 
with Mr. Monkton—it’s orders.” 

Mrs. Byrd looked at her over the open hand¬ 
bag and set her humorous mouth in an indignant 
line. “Well, it’s a great, little old country all 
right, all right. I sort of love it myself, when I 

don’t want to shake it.and the feeling 

seems mutual. However, that is a fine boy and 
they are nice people in Philadelphia. Maybe 
he’ll get a bit bored himself visiting in that mu¬ 
seum—and if so, seeing he’s a Yankee boy, he 
mayn’t take orders.” 

“But 1 shall have to.” Miss Lang spoke with 
dignity; so that Mrs. Byrd snapped her hand¬ 
bag when she heard it. “He doesn’t know our 
ways, Lady Monkton thinks; and he’s a member 

of the family.She was perfectly nice about 

it—and it’s largely on my own account, I fancy, 
that she’s being so very careful.” 

“She wasn’t so extremely, especially, Victor- 




THE PRINCESS’S NUT 


191 


ianly careful on her own account—if the tales 
they tell are true,” was Mrs. Byrd’s unsympa¬ 
thetic rejoinder; “but now she lives in a museum 
and no doubt, keeps herself locked up in a 
glass-case. I don’t pretend to understand her, 
Jeanie, my lamb, or them, or the law, or the 
Coroner, or the country-side generally. My 
people came originally from somewhere ’round 
here, but they dropped the guide-book overboard, 
I guess, before they got to the States.” 

While talking, she went to the table and took 
therefrom a sealed envelope, which she handed 
to her guest with a look half-quizzical, half- 
maternal. 

“When you were little and used to read fairy 
stories,” said she, fixing on Jean her steady, blue 
gaze with a significance that belied her playful 
words, “remember how the old fairy gave the 
princess a nut, which she was to crack when her 
hour of need came? I have a hunch that things 
may get considerably mixed up around here— 
and maybe bother you, my lamb. So I’m giving 
you a nut. I trust you not to open it unless you 
have to. My address is in it—and—some other 
things. Good-bye to you, dearie, and good 
luck!” 

She flung on her travelling-cloak and kissed 
the girl warmly. She seemed to be in a hurry. 
Jean, mystified, saw the fashionably-clad figure 
disappear and turned homeward. Her last im¬ 
pressions of her friend were the oddly mixed 
ones of the handsome, intelligent, serious face— 
and the elaborate, costly clothes. 


192 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

As Jean strolled through the beech-wood in 
the soft air, she kept turning over in her clear, 
little head the oddities of speech and behavior in 
Mrs. Byrd of Chicago. The American lady’s 
personality held no trace of melodrama or flight¬ 
iness. At the moment of action, Jean recalled 
how calm and unexcited she had been. What 
did she mean by her suggestion of trouble to 
come? And from what quarter did it threaten? 
Jean had inherited a strain of adventurous ro¬ 
mance which tinctured her natural caution, and 
this strain had led her to Shank and had at¬ 
tracted her to Lady Monkton. No mood of tim¬ 
idity now affected her, although she had a qualm 
when she recalled how very much her mother 
wanted her, and how self-sacrificing she had 
been to let Jean go out into the world in search 
of fortune and experience. But Jean knew that 
her mother’s code would not permit her to re¬ 
sign her position now, at this particular moment, 
when loyalty to one’s employer was demanded. 
Just what Mrs. Byrd foresaw, Jean didn’t know, 
although for some time past there had been one 
or two dark corners of Shank into which the 
girl had feared and dreaded to look. She had 
refused to think of them—she still refused. But 
how, in the name of all that was inexplicable, had 
this chance tourist come to light upon these in¬ 
definite, noil-formulated matters of suspicion? 
If it was not these matters that she meant, then 
what was it she knew, and how had she obtained 
her knowledge? 

At this point in her meditations a voice in- 


THE PRINCESS’S NUT 


193 


terrupted them. ‘Tm glad to see you out again,” 
said Dick Monkton, “and how’s the wrist?” 

He stood a few feet off, and beside him Lady 
Monkton’s terrier stood grinning and wagging 
its tail. 

“My wrist is much better,” she answered; “it’s 
getting all straightened out—but ray head isn’t. 
I still have a sprain in my mind.” 

She kept on walking toward the distant tow¬ 
ers, and Dick fell into step beside her. “I know. 
I have one myself,” he confessed, “and the in¬ 
quest certainly didn’t explain anything; now did 
it?” 

“Nothing. Who killed that man and why?” 

She shook her head over the tangle, and then 
they both looked again at the Great House they 
were approaching, with its royal towers raising 
their heads in pride. The girl spoke the thought 
of both. 

“Shank keeps its own secrets,” said she, with 
a touch of awe. “It’s terrible as well as splendid. 
Sometimes I feel....” She broke off; and it 
was the young man who, after waiting a moment, 
completed her sentence: 

“... .that you rather hate it?” 

“How did you know?” She glanced in sur¬ 
prise at his grave face. 

“There are times when you show it, while 
at others.” 

“Oh, it’s by no means simple, my feeling about 
Shank,” Jean explained; “not just like or dis¬ 
like.” She grew absorbed and spoke freely. “It 
has a fascination one can’t get away from, but 



194 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


I’m not sure it’s wholesome.I feel the way 

Michelet describes the women of the Italian Re¬ 
naissance: 'Elies troublent, corrompent et civil- 
isent!’ Shank troubles me, but it civilizes me. 

"And so far,” her companion added with sim¬ 
plicity, "it has not corrupted you.” 

Inwardly, he found himself surprised; he had 
hardly expected from her so eclectic a quotation, 
and one moreover which voiced his own obscure 
and inarticulate reactions. There is no shorter 
cut to intimacy than lies in expressing the 
thought of another, and Dick began repeating 
her name to himself as the name of a friend. 
Meanwhile the girl was pursuing her idea, look¬ 
ing up at him with a moved and sensitive face. 

"Well, I don’t know.no doubt in time 

it may,” she confessed. "Look at the calm way 
we’re all taking what has just happened. A vio¬ 
lent, mysterious death—and, to Shank, why, it’s 
only another murder added to the crimes of the 
Past—just an item on its record.” 

"How do you mean another murder?” he said, 
drawing together his peaked brows. 

"There was a nobleman found dead in bed 
in the Archbishop’s day,” Jean told him. 
"Smothered, apparently. They tied him up in 
a sack, dropped him out of the window, and bur¬ 
ied him in the dogs’ graveyard. ’Twas given out 
his horse had kicked him. A serving-man was 
knifed once, during a brawl in the brew-house. 
He walks, the maids tell me. And a lady, who 
smiled on Piers the first, died very suddenly 
after dinner in the Oak Parlor—probably of 




THE PRINCESS'S NUT 


195 


poison.He was keeping an Italian dancer 

at the time and she knew about drugs. 

“Why, it’s a charnel-house!" Dick cried out. 

“All such old mansions are. Like famous 
jewels, they are held by bloody hands. And 
that's not the worst, to my thinking," Jean con¬ 
tinued, fire running through her speech and 
burning in the eyes she lifted to the man beside 
her. “When you remember the souls that have 
been murdered—stifled—and the happiness and 
goodness poisoned, just to uphold that!" 

He nodded. 

“I think of it sometimes, Mr. Monkton, night 

and day.The cruelty that never got beyond 

those walls—the betrayals—the scared, shudder¬ 
ing people living in terror of their sins—and the 
petty tyranny.! When I think of the wo¬ 

men of Shank—why, it seems a Moloch, feeding 
on human life." 

She broke off, for she was moved. 

“I'm glad," Richard steadily answered, “that 
it's over—that all such things were done with 
long ago." 

“Long ago!" her voice mocked him, and he 
thought with a shock he had never seen a face 
so quivering with intensity. “Yesterday—to¬ 
day! Do you recall that poor little Lady Monk- 
ton, deliberately tormented, driven so mad with 
wretchedness that she ran away at nineteen and 
drowned herself?" 

She had utterly forgotten in her emotion what 
these words might mean to her companion, till 
his handsome face went white with the shock 






196 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


of them. He stood stock-still, looking dumbly 
down on her. Jean didn’t know what to do or 
say. Overwhelmed with horror at herself, she 
murmured something, and crimson, turned aside 
into another path, leaving him to walk slowly 
towards the house alone. 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE LORDS OF SHANK 

T HE experience of the last few days finally 
lifted for Dick that veil of illusion and un¬ 
reality which had obscured life for him during so 
many months. Change of climate and recovered 
health, the thick stillness of English nights, the 
tranquil movement of English summer days— 
in themselves so restorative to tired nerves— 
these had helped to give him back his old, active 
self. But it had needed the stimulus of excite¬ 
ment and danger, the spur of resource and of 
invention, to rouse in him an awakened sense 
of reality. He had opened his eyes from a dead 
sleep the morning after his adventure in the 
crypt, with a strange restlessness and a deter¬ 
mination to be passive in the hands of others no 
longer. Up to that moment, he had been a pawn 
in Destiny's game. His father’s death and the 
resulting change in his prospects, the strange 
invitation, the voyage, the life at Shank, this 
series of events had subtly laid hold on him, had 
entangled him in a tempting bewilderment, so 
that he had wandered away into the dream of 
197 


198 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

a golden future. Today, he woke; he looked 
about; he saw people and things as they were; 
and he could use definite terms to constrain his 
own sense of duty. 

It was delightful to go on this way, visiting 
in this wonderful place surrounded by things 
his soul loved—but he must not allow it to befog 
him. Were he really Piers Monkton’s son, he 
was the owner of Shank and the ownership 
brought responsibilities with it. The fact must 
be capable of determination by law; and, in the 
final result, the rather curious Charles Ventris 
and the no less curious Denise Monkton were 
no more factors than was Dick himself, although 
they seemed to stand as the enigmatic guardians 
of his fate. 

And if he were not Sir Piers Monkton’s son— 
what then? A wave of gay courage, the sweep 
of recovered dauntlessness had arisen in his 

soul.Well, he was yet young; he had a few 

hundreds still in bank at home; life was full of 
possibilities, if one started in time. This mood 
of confidence and faith in the future had endured 
for several days—it was this mood which Jean 
Lang’s words poignantly struck at and dispersed. 
A fog of suspicion, uneasiness and perplexity 
was let in upon his mind to darken its outlook. 
This picture she evoked of a girl tormented, mis¬ 
erable, flying from what? So afraid—afraid of 
what? afraid to the point of seeking death. That 
young woman! It was a picture which Dick could 
not bear. He struggled with the pain of it, stand¬ 
ing alone in the green quadrangle. Henry VIII’s 



THE LORDS OF SHANK 


199 


towers tossed up their gilded vanes; the many 
paned windows glittered. Blue sky, dotted with 
puffs of cloud, bent over him; from the eaves 
doves’ voices interchanged their delicate anti- 
phonal; and swallows flashed vividly across the 
turf. Dick looked upon this beauty, desiring it 
and dreading it. What spirits owned it for a 
dwelling place? 

He wandered to the Triton fountain and rested 
on the edge. Poetry, the natural expression of 
all this, rose to the surface of his troubled 
thoughts and gave them utterance. “The boast 
of heraldry, the pomp of power—and all that 
beauty, all that wealth ere gave” he found him¬ 
self murmuring. The walls that splendidly en¬ 
folded him, by what memories were they ruled? 
What ghosts walked through those halls? Mur¬ 
der and lust and tyranny—were these the lords 
of Shank? The procession stalked through his 
imagination—selfish prelate and cruel monarch 
at the head—behind them the haughty, narrow, 
greedy owners of the place—and at the end, two 
that walked ever together, close together, mov¬ 
ing jealously through those rich rooms—so 
cherishing, so intense! The one sour, dull, vain 
—wholly dominated by that fiery other, with his 
artist’s face and fanatic eyes. Was it from them 
the little girl-ghost so desperately fled, her baby 
in her arms, or from the smiling triumph of an¬ 
other woman hovering in the background, with 
her subtle eyes?. 

“I have had a letter from Charles.” 

Denise Monkton’s voice broke the stillness. 



200 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Richard had dined with her in the long twilight, 
and she did not ask any questions concerning his 
afternoon’s walk. His mood was a little silent 
and Lady Monkton respected that silence. She 
herself tended to be silent—she waited for his 
speech and ministered to his mood in that skilful 
way she had—restfully preserving her own cool 
independence of spirit—and sometimes gazing 
at him half drowsily and contemplatively—the 
way a Persian cat looks at one when it desires 
to be quiet. 

After dinner was over, Denise trailed her 
white draperies to the rose-garden, and they sat 
side by side there like a pair of comrades with 
their cigarettes. Full June breathed its perfume 
upon the air, and Dick closed his eyes to savor 

it.The beauty spread about him, soothed his 

soul and caressed it, charming the evil thoughts 
to rest and torment him no longer...... 

“Ah, you have heard at last!” 

“He writes from Paris—but he does not know 
just when he will be home.” 

“Had he heard about—?” 

“He read it in the newspapers. He says he’s 
so glad nothing happened!” Her voice rippled 
into laughter. “Of course, Charles means- 
nothing happened to Shank!” 

“That’s what he would think of first, of 
course,” Dick said. “I guess he wouldn’t care 
about the man.” 

Her face was still smiling as she turned to him. 
“A dead burglar more or less would mean noth- 




THE LORDS OF SHANK 


201 


ing to Charles!” she said mockingly. “Why 
should it?” 

“Are you convinced Stern was a burglar?” 

Surprise made Lady Monkton straighten in 
her chair. “Why, what else could he be?” The 
plain question made Dick’s doubt harder to de¬ 
fine. 

“Why was nothing missing or disturbed? 

Why did those two men fight.? I have a 

feeling that Stern was shot, perhaps, for a very 
different reason.” 

“What reason?” 

“Let us say because he recognized some¬ 
body.” 

She did not answer for a few moments, and 
when she spoke her voice was troubled. 

“That’s a horrid thought.Do you sus¬ 

pect anyone definitely?” 

“How could I, Lady Monkton? Since the 
inquest I have been considering, and it doesn’t 
seem to me that robbery explains this mystery.. 
....” She noticed his manner; it was reflec¬ 
tive and mature and she looked sideways at his 
thoughtful face. “After all, there are no valu¬ 
ables in the place where Stern was found. He 
had lots of chances before we turned up—why 
didn’t he make use of them? No: it’s more in¬ 
tricate than that, I feel sure.” 

“Tell me what you really think.” 

“I think,” he said directly and openly, “that 
there was some plan—perhaps not for burglary. 
I think there was to be a meeting, pre-arranged, 
that night and safe in that part of Shank. Some- 




202 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


thing went wrong.maybe the meeting 

was interrupted.maybe the man Stern met 

was not the one he expected.maybe he 

saw some face he knew—maybe he died defend¬ 
ing Shank, after all.” 

She thought over all this. “You are very in¬ 
genious, Richard,” she said unwillingly. “I had 
not thought you so—so observant. But you are 
wrong: because your idea would mean there is 
someone in the house—■” 

“I believe there is someone in the house. Do 
you know all about that man Hays?” 

“Hayth?” Her voice was mildly astonished 
and she lisped the name at him. 

“His face is untrustworthy, and I've seen him 
tipsy—” but Denise Monkton cut him short with 
a quiver of laughter, having indeed a note in it 
close to hysteria. 

“Oh, poor Hays! My dear boy—you are 
quite wild—Charles ^ould laugh at you! He 
saw to the man’s references—they were perfect¬ 
ly in order—he was a Duke’s man, if I recall. 
Oh, no! He can’t help his ugly face, you know— 
and as for drinking occasionally—they all do it 
—all of them, more or less.” She laughed again 
and Dick was silent. His feeling was that the 
whole matter had affected his hostess’s nerves. 
When he next spoke, his tone was light and 
soothing. 

“Well, it’s all over now anyhow.I won’t 

bother you with my theories. I hope Mr. Ventris 
will soon return, and you can talk it all over with 
him.” 






THE LORDS OF SHANK 


203 


“With Charles? If I know, he won’t be in the 
least interested. He writes that he’s had a won¬ 
derful stroke of luck and he can think of nothing 
else. Wait,—here’s a clipping from a French 
newspaper—” 

It was only nine o’clock and still light enough 
to read by. Lady Monkton unfolded the news¬ 
paper and rapidly translated for Dick’s benefit. 

“The distinguished antiquarian and palseographist, Mr. 
Charles Ventris, has just announced an important discovery, 
recently made by him while touring in Italy and the south 
of France. Mr. Ventris is chiefly known to connoisseurs 
by reason of his connection for many years past with the 
famous collections at Shank Park. These unsurpassed 
groups of paintings, furniture and manuscripts were placed 
under his charge by the late owner, Sir Piers Monkton, with 
the result that they are now at the highest point of perfec¬ 
tion. This expert’s peculiar knowledge of works of art has 
identified him during the last thirty years, with the discovery 
of several remarkable objects. Among these is the famous 
Monkton Missal and the no less wonderful “Treyze Sainctes 
Hystoires du Jean de Braq,” which was unearthed by his 
labors in 1892, from a secret cupboard in the remains of the 
ecclesiastical palace at Shank House. He reports his latest 
find to be an unfinished but superb 14th century Canticles, in 
folio, containing fifty-four leaves, most of which are elab¬ 
orately bordered, with an intricate floreate design of ivy 
leaves in gold and colors, interspersed with exquisite angel’s 

heads and grotesques of men and animals.The initials, 

large and small, are in burnished gold and many colors, in¬ 
cluding some extremely rare tints. The text is written in 
clear, large Gothic character, sixteen long lines to a full page 
with comparatively few contractions, and is evidently the 
work of a skilled French scribe of the middle 14th century. 
Neither the script nor the borders, however, contain the 
unique features of this beautiful object of art. T was 
amazed,’ the finder writes, ‘to discover four large miniatures 
of surpassing beauty, unequalled by any I have ever exam- 



204 


THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


ined. The Bedford Missal holds nothing finer; and these 
paintings are evidently the work of one of the unnamed 
masters of the art. A friend attributes them without hesita¬ 
tion to the Fiorentini, Jacopo and Silvestro, whose work de¬ 
lighted Lorenzo Magnifico. Tenderness of sentiment, firm¬ 
ness of composition and grouping, delicacy of execution and 
play of fancy, reach a high point, and enrapture all who have 
gazed on them/ Only four of the eight miniatures are com¬ 
pleted, and the textual decorations extend no further than 
Cant. VI. The volume has evidently lost its first binding 
and is encased in a comparatively unimportant example of 
embossed leather over boards, with the remains of a reliquary 
in the lid. Even in its unfinished state the MS. is valued at 
no less than £8,000 and is doubtless destined to enrich the 
noble collection at Shank House.” 

When she made an end of reading, she smiled 
happily at her companion. “Isn't Charles won¬ 
derful? Yes, it was he who hunted till he found 
the Treyze Hystoires. The Archbishop had 
taken it from some obscure monastery, and so 
he'd never dared exhibit it. He kept it hidden 
away in a secret cupboard in the wall of his pal¬ 
ace. Charles had come across the rumor of this 
story in some ancient records. He made the dis¬ 
covery. Isn't he wonderful—Charles?" 

Dick agreed that he was indeed wonderful. 

“I'm glad he’s returning," said Dick, his gaze 
dwelling upon the tracery of black chimney 
against silver twilight, “because I do want 
a talk with him about my business. When I 
came here, I was all in—I'd been sick and had a 
shock and—you know—you saw me. So I just 
accepted. But I mustn't go on doing that for 
always. And I’ve been thinking out lately things 
for myself." 


THE LORDS OF SHANK 


205 


She observed him, but without interruption. 

“I feel more and more,” he went steadily on, 
to her growing surprise and dismay, “that Mr. 
Ventris and you have been misled about me. Be¬ 
cause, Lady Monkton, the man I call my father 
was simply incapable of carrying away somebody 
else’s child and passing it off as his own.” 

She set an obstinate mouth and her glance 
was watchful and anxious. “Any man would 
have done so, I think, under the circumstances.. 

... .Remember.. .he was away at the time. 

Has it occurred to you, Dick, that he may not 
even have known who the baby really was ?” 

“That” cried he with a scornful snort, “is 
even more impossible than the other!” 

“My dear child, men don't always know about 
their wives!” 

“Perhaps not here. They do at home.” 

Lady Monkton considered this remark with a 
sort of despair, confronting for the first time in 
her experience the incurable idealism of the 
American. 

“And then,” Dick persisted, “there would have 
been something in my memory to confirm it. I've 
not forgotten Mother. I was six when she died. 
Surely, there would have been something—a re¬ 
mark, a look. No! I doubt it—I keep on doubt¬ 
ing!” 

The woman beside him had been forced during 
more than one crisis in the past to overcome mas¬ 
culine restiveness; and she had been invariably 
successful. Once again she evoked a troubling 
charm, which had lost but little of its potency 



206 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


with the years. Her voice out of the dusk had a 
halting music; she did not omit to lay upon his 
wrist her warm, electric hand. 

“Richard, these things are so subjective. I 

doubted, too, at first.I thought Charles 

carried away.But in these six weeks I’ve 

seen you, I’ve grown convinced! You are Piers 

Monkton's son.I would swear to it in any 

court of law.” 

Her hand clung where it lay; her voice, her 
touch—she expected these to thrill. But they 
didn't alter by a shade the absorbed, troubled, yet 

affectionate glance he turned on her. 

“Strange child that he is!” she wondered. 

“I wish I wanted to be his son!” 

She misunderstood him. “Ah, you fear so 
magnificent an heritage?” 

“No: it's another heritage I fear.” 

Still she didn't comprehend him, and her look 
showed it. The look made him want to be rough. 

“How about—my mother? A girl of nineteen 
driven by unhappiness to kill herself! Think of 
it—a girl of nineteen!” 

“Somebody has been talking to him,” Lady 
Monkton thought, and her expression held just 
the proper shade of distress. 

“She was insanely jealous, of course. Jealous 
of Piers' work, of his collections, of his friends— 
jealous, if you like, of me.” 

Her openness was disarming, she met his 
embarrassed eyes quite frankly. “Jealous with¬ 
out cause” she firmly insisted. 

They rose simultaneously, and she linked her 







THE LORDS OF SHANK 


207 


arm in Dick's and walked beside him, her lisping 
utterance both eager and caressing. 

‘Tiers made no love to me—but it was natural 
he should turn to me for sympathy because he 
knew how I felt about Shank. Could I help 
that he preferred to talk to me instead of 
that narrow-minded little Lucy? She hated 
Shank; I adored it; I studied it, worked over it. 
She felt it as a rival. Why, when Piers asked her 
to lend him £5,000 that he might buy back that 
final Hoppner—the one that rounds out the 
group—his wife refused. Charles had to get it 
for him outside. Imagine, she refused! Oh, she 
w~as altogether impossible—!” 

“She rushed away to kill herself," Dick per¬ 
sisted, with wretched emphasis. “Between you 
all, you made her too miserable to live. She took 
her own life. I can't bear to think of it." 

Absorbed in his own feeling, he did not see 
that the gleam in Lady Monkton's eyes was not 
a pleasant one. But she played an ancient role 

and she had great self-confidence-She walked 

beside the young man for a pace or two, then 
set her two hands upon his shoulders, and forced 
his eyes to meet her own. 

“Ah, Richard," she said, exquisitely; “how is 
it that you feel so for her—if she is not your 
mother?" 


CHAPTER XVIII 

SEVEN BRANCHES OF THE OLIVE-TREE 

« W HERE did I find it? Where does any- 
W body find anything? By looking for it 
where nobody else ever thought to look!” 

M. Charles sat in his favorite chair, opposite 
the Cornaro Luini in the Oak Parlor. His 
travelling cloak was still about him. He looked 
worn from the journey and the heat; his pallor 
was marked; his eyes were puffed and weary; but 
the music of his gay voice rang clear as of old. 
On his knees he held a case containing his new 
treasure, and his finger-tips caressed it. They 
sat eagerly about him, Lady Monkton and Rich¬ 
ard one on each side, while at a discreet dis¬ 
tance, but no less interested, was Jean Lang.... 

“There still remain, my dear Diccon, on the 
borders of Italy and France, ruins of convents 
and monasteries which had been overlooked at 
the time of the French Revolution or in the later 
periods of dispersal. They were small, perhaps, 
or harmless, and were left to die a natural death 

by inanition.Their libraries, if there were 

any, drifted to the village church sometimes to 
208 



BRANCHES OF THE OLIVE-TREE 


209 


be sold, sometimes not. Perhaps the chest of 
manuscripts, books, fragments, was piled away 
in a crypt or a vestry—to be forgotten. I know 
that hill country and I knew where to look— 
that's all.” 

“But still,” Dick protested, “such religious 
communities were poor—how came they to pos¬ 
sess these treasures? Even in the old time, it 
was only the richer monasteries that ever owned 
them.” 

“Not always: and that,” smiled Mr. Ventris, 
“is another story! But—am I boring you, 
Denise?” 

It was just his cunning way to whet their ap¬ 
petite, by anticipation. He glanced, still smiling, 
from one face to the other; and he still kept his 
long hand upon the case on his knees. Then he 
narrated: 

“Many of the great abbeys and monasteries 
of the Renaissance, we know to have contained 
thousands of manuscripts; they were nothing 
less than huge circulating libraries. St. Jose- 
sur-Mer, for example, as early as the 9th century, 
carried on a vigorous trade with England. Manu¬ 
scripts were loaned, interchanged; rented for the 
use of copyists. I happened to stay during 
my trip at a village on the road over the 
mountains which led to the monastery of Bobbio 
in Lombardy—one of the most celebrated depots 

of the old time.They used to send their 

volumes into France on muleback, guarded only 
by patient monks and over that winding road, 



210 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


swarming with robbers—Are you answered, 
Diccon?” 

“You think this one was stolen ?” 

“Stolen—or merely thrust into the old church 
chest in fear—as a temporary abiding place. 
Who knows, and what does it matter? To my 
mind, its presence on that hill-track is amply 
accounted for.” 

Dick was fascinated. 

“Which would also account for the rather plain 
binding. Illuminations of this quality generally 

have a more sumptuous dress.But if, as I 

believe, the small caravan was attacked, its escort 
slain, the books carried off, then rich bindings 
would be stripped off first of all for their gold and 

jewels. This one is evidently much later. 

How I wish we could add it to the hoard at 
Shank!” 

“Ah, can we not?” Lady Monkton’s voice 
was full of disappointment, and he looked at her 
rebukingly. 

“No—no—Denise! This one is for sale—al¬ 
ready I’ve started.There will be a great 

sale this autumn and this item must stand at the 

head.You must have forgotten our need 

of money.” She was silent. 

“This will be a piece,” he continued, “that has 
not been offered for years. But of that you shall 

judge for yourselves—you shall see.By 

the way, Denise, I ought to tell you that I ex¬ 
pect every day to have an offer from the Duke 
of Bradford, and I think I shall accept it. Bar¬ 
ring our own here, there is no collection finer 







BRANCHES OF THE OLIVE-TREE 


211 


than that at Grantchester Hall.I should 

rather that the Canticles go there than anywhere, 
except, perhaps, the British Museum; and that 

is out of the question.they cannot afford 

it. Undoubtedly there will be in time an Amer¬ 
ican offer, probably larger, but I do not want to 
wait.The Duke knows that.” 

While he talked on in this fashion he removed# 
the wrappings from the case which he opened. 
The folio he drew forth was in a worn wooden 
binding with rusty clasps, and Mr. Ventris de¬ 
precated it with a slight, apologetic gesture. 

"When I first saw this, I hardly glanced at it 
—some old mass-book, I thought—nothing of 
real value would have so mean a case! and I 
examined everything else first.Then I un¬ 
clasped it. 9 

He suited the action to the word, with a toss 
of the head having a characteristic touch of melo¬ 
drama. Miss Lang held in her hand the move- 
able bulb and directed its rays on the page. They 
looked, and remained silent, except that Denise 
Monkton drew a deep and startled breath. 

What opened to them was just that sudden 
little vision of the heavenly country which must 
have come to the medieval monk in the dawn of 
a summer morning; a blaze of color, soft yet bril¬ 
liant, blue and rose-red and gold and silver and 
mauve and green, on a page of purple-tinted 
sheepskin. The first miniature was large, its 
frame taking up half the page.the text en¬ 

circled with border of intricate and elaborate de¬ 
sign of tiny roses, buds and leaves and flowers, 









212 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


birds and animals disporting themselves in the 
garlands. These same flowers repeated them¬ 
selves in the background of the miniature, where 
they jewelled the garden space for the immortal 
lovers, who walked among them. 

“See, the woman's figure looks like Lady 
Monkton," Jean Lang said, the first to break 
silence. Mr. Ventris gave a happy little chuckle 
at the conceit, and Denise Monkton herself 
smiled as she bent over the picture. But her 
smile gave way to a look of bewilderment when 
she examined the figures closer, because the tiny 
features of the woman did have a cast resembling 
her own. Charles Ventris turned the page, ex¬ 
plaining, admiring, commenting. “They did not 
think the text up to standard in Paris—yet, to 
my mind, it's very fine and I’ve never seen a love¬ 
lier initial. Do you note the angel-faces peeping 
out of the roses—there—in Canticle III? One 
or two errors I found—chiefly in the contrac¬ 
tions. Of course, there should be eight minia¬ 
tures and there are only four.I wonder 

what interrupted the poor artist at his work and 
caused him to leave this lovely thing incomplete? 
Do you suppose death claimed him? Perhaps he 
saw so beautifully into the heavenly country be¬ 
cause he was very near to it himself." 

# “That miniature," said Jean in an awed voice, 
“is the finest that I ever saw except one—and 
that was by Angelico." 

“Oh, surely not.!" the owner murmured. 

“But do you realize, my friends, what this would 
have been worth if it had only been complete? 
Priceless. Money would hardly have bought it." 






BRANCHES OF THE OLIVE-TREE 


213 


“If it had, you would never have let it go, 
Charles.you would have kept it yourself.” 

“Perhaps you are right. What do you think 
of it, Dick?” 

“I think it is—wonderful.” 

Had it not been for an interruption, as un¬ 
expected as it was welcome, M. Charles might 
have noticed that his young friend’s tone was 
thoughtful. But the message, concerning some 
packing-cases which had just arrived from the 
railway, was an urgent one, and M! Charles left 
the Oak Parlor immediately, accompanied by 
Lady Monkton. The two young people re¬ 
mained, therefore, side by side alone together, 
gazing down on the great Canticles, which 
spread open its leaves before them in all their 
appealing loveliness. 

“Look, Mr. Monkton, at the border. I have 
never—” 

“Miss Lang.are you sure it is genuine?” 

The question came like a blow, and she shrank 
before it. “What do you mean?” she gasped. 

“Only this—it is so very strange. Look close¬ 
ly, look here!” 

Her first thought—that Yankees loved a jest, 
both in and out of season—was dispelled by the 
seriousness of his face. Her eyes followed his 
pointing finger and bent over the painting. It 
was the last of the four. There sat the king’s 
daughter, robed and crowned as a bride awaiting 
her lover. Around the border and framework, 
angels and amoretti danced, scattering flowers, 




214 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


and each tiny face wore a visible look of joy. 
At the bride’s feet ran a silver stream, wherein 
birds drank and fluttered. Overhead, a pale sky 
was dappled with puffs of cloud. Beyond the 
garden close, where the spice bushes and pleas¬ 
ant fruits bent before the coming of the south 
wind, was a background of hills, on whose 
rounded tops the sunshine rested in a golden 
peace. An olive tree at the left-hand corner was 
traced against the sky. 

When Jean raised her head from this picture, 
still in bewilderment, it was to see that Monkton 
had laid another book before her, which during 
her absorption, he had procured from the open 
case near-by. This was the Virgil Mr. Ventris 
had bought at his father’s sale and given him. 
With a gesture, he urged her to look. In that 
picture now opened, which was smaller, simpler 
and darker in coloring, ^Eneas parted from Dido 
in a garden sloping to the bay, where his curly 
little ship awaited him. Beyond, was a back¬ 
ground of hills on whose rounded tops the sun¬ 
shine rested in a golden peace. An olive-tree, 
in the left hand corner, was traced against the 
sky. 

While Miss Lang looked and looked, her com¬ 
panion’s voice could be heard, as from a distance, 
saying: 

“The sun lies— so —upon the third hill. 

That olive-tree has seven branches, four to the 
right, three to the left.” 

She lifted her head; he checked. Their eyes 
were turned from the contemplation of the two 




BRANCHES OF THE OLIVE-TREE 215 

pictures to look upon one another, and both were 
troubled. 

“The Virgil is French and at least one hun¬ 
dred and fifty years earlier than the Canticles.. 

... .Can—can M. Charles have been deceived?” 

“It is strange, very strange; a remarkable coin¬ 
cidence—and yet.” 

“Coincidence! It cannot be! Why, that olive 
tree has the same arrangement of the same num¬ 
ber of branches.!” 

She began to talk very fast. 

“You see, the backgrounds are often mere 

conventions, just as the borders are.One 

painter borrowed from another where his own in¬ 
ventive fancy, perhaps, failed him. No doubt 
both of these were copied from some still earlier 

picture.You know how it is on the stage— 

in Shakespeare’s plays, where the actors repro¬ 
duce stage business, which has come down to 
them by tradition, centuries old. I’ve heard 

of such things, of course.It is—it must be 

that.” 

He listened, but half-convinced. “If the things 
were not so beautiful—but it is so ravishingly 
beautiful.You say you have seen such rep¬ 

etitions before?” 

She stood above the folio, one hand resting 
protectingly upon it—she fixed her eye on a dis¬ 
tant corner of the room and went on talking, like 
a machine that has been wound up. 

“Not seen , Mr. Monkton, but heard , oh, yes 
yes! Everyone knows about the duplication of 
the conventional background, oh yes! Here it 










216 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

is startling because one doesn't see it usually in 
so fine an example—generally it is reserved for 
inferior work. No doubt, however, when I study 
this more carefully, with my magnifier, the 
brush-strokes will show themselves as unmis- 

takeably of the two periods." 

He thought her manner oddly concentrated, 
but he was aware of a. vast confidence in her. 

Miss Lang gave one that feeling of trust. 

“I see. But M. Charles.shall I call his 

attention to it—ought I?” 

Miss Lang picked up the Virgil and crossed 
the room to the case where she locked it up be¬ 
fore replying. 

“I think, Mr. Monkton, that just now I would 

not mention the matter to M. Charles." 

“You mean—it would be a jar—he is so 
happy?" 

She repeated abstractedly. 

“It would be a jar—he is so happy." And then, 
as Dick remained silent, plainly still troubled 
and perplexed, she suddenly wheeled round upon 
him to add: “M. Charles is one of the foremost 

experts living in this work.It stands to 

reason he would know were anything wrong; 
doesn't it?" 

“I suppose so. But he may have forgotten 
the olive-tree in the Virgil." 

“He may not need to remember it." Her man¬ 
ner was now natural again, and she half laughed. 
“I think that you and I might make ourselves 
a little ridiculous in his eyes, may we not? I will 
take occasion one of these days to use my most 








BRANCHES OF THE OLIVE-TREE 


217 


powerful lens on the olive-tree and if there is 
anything to tell I shall report it. There, will 
that do?” 

“Certainly, if you think best.” 

She paused once more above the Canticles and 
touched it with her finger-tips. 

“Meanwhile, this little oddity shall be a secret 
between us. Don’t let us spoil his joy in his re¬ 
turn.?” 

“Of course not—dear M. Charles!” Dick mur¬ 
mured and glanced down upon the olive-tree. 
When M. Charles re-entered the room, he found 
the young man still standing there absorbed; 
and the curator’s face and eyes shone with grati¬ 
fication. 

An hour later, the Canticles was locked in the 
safe; the secretary had returned to the Scrip¬ 
torium, though it was late; and Mr. Ventris was 
still talking with Denise. They had gone over 
the details of the attempted burglary and the 
burglar’s mysterious death. M. Charles had 
asked many, many questions. 

“I have, told Gapper at the Guard-house not to 
admit the public for a week or so,” Lady Monk- 
ton told him. “We must really run no risks if it 
was a plot, and my nerves are strained.” 

“I am not surprised. The experience was 
alarming. Tomorrow I shall see the police about 
it. Meanwhile, I would not worry, Denise—” 

He was still pacing the length of the room, his 
hands behind his back. He seemed restless and 
strained, and she turned to look at him. 

“You look very tired, Charles.” 




218 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“I am dead tired—travelling day and night 
does not suit me. And then the constant anxi¬ 
ety about the succession/' 

“I know. But there is nothing new." 

“No word from the Antarctic since I've been 
away?" 

“Practically nothing. You recall that the 
ship is not yet near the explorers and could not 
hope to hear anything from the Expedition for 
months." 

A silence fell. All the portraits in the Oak 
Parlor seemed to be looking down and waiting. 

“Charles?" 

The note in her voice drew the man quickly 
to her side. He bent over her. 

“Dear—what troubles you?" 

“Is the game worth the candle?" 

“Is Shank worth a rush-light, much less you 
and me!" 

“All this legal pother and struggle! You have 
no further proof. We may be misleading this 
lad to bitter disappointment. Suppose we were 
to withdraw and let things take their course. 
After all—" 

He broke upon her mild argumentative tone 
as a storm breaks. “And abandon Shank to Ly- 
cett Monkton—see the pictures and the manu¬ 
scripts and the silver all go to the Americans! 
Could you bear that?" 

“I think perhaps I could bear anything—if I 
could only be myself—" Her confused murmur 
died out in the flash with which he answered— 
“Well, I couId not l” 


BRANCHES OF THE OLIVE-TREE 


219 


She caught his hand imploringly and began 
to speak very low and fast, turning wide-open 
eyes up to him. 

“Charles—I grow afraid! I do not understand 
but I am more and more afraid! Haven’t I 
always done as you wished?” 

“Well, have you ever repented it?” His tone 
half laughed at her. “What were you, Denise, 
what would you have been, but for me? An ob¬ 
scure secretary or governess somewhere. Think 
of what you are now!” 

“I do not want to think. I—have never been 
happy!” 

When he saw the tears in her eyes, his face 
grew still and cold. But his voice kept its gentle 
charm. 

“I know. Who better? It’s not for long now, 
dear. Richard will let us have one of the small 
houses near to Shank—just as we always planned 
—and when his affairs are settled I think 
there will be money. One more lucky find like 
this and—” 

At his words she quivered from head to foot. 
“But suppose—Charles—suppose—I am afraid, 
I tell you. Your judgment is not what it was. 
If Dick—” 

He had been holding her hand with all his 
affectionate courtesy; but she felt his grasp grow 
deliberately limp, and he turned an indulgent eye 
upon her as one looks at a fanciful child. His 
lips too curled a trifle disdainfully, his carven 
face had no touch of uncertainty—never a touch 
of doubt! Ere he had time to reply, his 



220 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


ear caught the sound of an approaching foot¬ 
fall, and he shook off her clinging, chillfingers. 

“William.” he warned her, and walked over 
to the hearth rug as the footman knocked. 

“A trunk call for you, sir, on the telephone.” 

Mr. Ventris hurried out, leaving her ladyship 
reclining as usual in her favorite bergere. Before 
her an open casement gave to her eyes the 
familiar miracle of moonlight on the terrace. Be¬ 
hind her, all the great portraits, brought into 
life by the lights under them, seemed suddenly 
to have concentrated their gaze upon her. Denise 
had had such fancies before, nerves, she sup¬ 
posed; but suddenly they were more than she 
could bear—she stiffened, afraid to turn her 
head. All those painted people were looking at 
her—and oh! they knew! The cold eyes of Hol¬ 
bein, the serenity of Van Dyck, the indulgent 
tolerance of Reynolds, the direct, piercing sim¬ 
plicity of Hoppner—all looked, all recognized, 
all understood. In that gaze they accepted her 

.She had always felt in her terrified soul 

that the portraits knew—knew more than people, 
because they had become immortal and omnis¬ 
cient.The Archbishop, who openly cares¬ 

sed the ivory limbs of Venus, he knew of the past, 
and his insolent sympathy made her cheeks 
burn. That cold and fanatic Piers the first —he 
understood those small, carefully careless dia¬ 
logues with Lucy Monkton, the studied torture, 
incessant pricks of cruelty, under which her 
weak nature drooped. All had seen day by day 
the dexterity with which Piers had been en- 




BRANCHES OF THE OLIVE-TREE 221 

tangled, the vigilant and skilful play of her tact 
and enthusiasm, until his sour nature was roused 
and she had become as indispensable to him as 
Charles had been. 

A sense of being watched, seen, understood, 
flowed suddenly over Denise in an icy current. 
She could not turn nor speak, she was frozen— 
oppressed. That legion of fallen angels hovered 
over her, she almost fancied she could hear them 

breathe and rejoice.Oh, was this terror 

—this terror of the future —their doing? Did 
they triumph over her? Was this suffocation, 
intolerable setting to life—was this what is 
called remorse? If Charles would only return, 
what kept him so long away? 

When at length Mr. Ventris opened the door, 
her evil fancies dissolved; the relief was unspeak¬ 
able. For a moment she closed her eyes and 
sighed; then looked at him and sat erect, be¬ 
cause it was plain from his face that he had news. 

“Was it London?” 

“Yes, Scrope.” He went over to the bell and 
rang it. “Where's Diccon?” 

“Why—have you heard—?” 

“Yes. I have great news.” His face was alive 
with triumph. “Mary McNeil has been found. 
She turned up at Scrope’s office this afternoon!” 




CHAPTER XIX 

THE LEGAL MINUET 

M R. Ingleby Scrope had offices in Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields, in the congenial atmosphere of 
darkness and dust. Notwithstanding the medie¬ 
val flavoring to his name, he was the most modern 
of precise solicitors, with a literal eye and short- 
cropped side-whiskers, a worshipper from the 
heart of the God of Things as they Are, All his 
life he had been an estate solicitor, witnessing, 
without envy, the rise of the new and powerful 
group of corporation attorneys, who, more and 
more in England, tend to Americanize this 
branch of the legal profession. Their fees were 
enormous, but Mr. Scrope’s was the easier life, 
for peers are less exacting clients than million¬ 
aires. Mr. Scrope also had a weakness for gentle¬ 
folk. His leisure tasks lay in the same direc¬ 
tion—he was authority on old Church silver and 
therefore had been exceedingly congenial to the 
late Sir Piers Monkton. 

It was this professional element which had 
made Mr. Scrope so usefully active during the 
painful weeks, nearly twenty-five years ago, 
222 


THE LEGAL MINUET 


223 


which* had followed the death of Sir Piers’ first 
wife.and of which his memory, on the Au¬ 

gust morning when we make his acquaintance, 
was still so clear. Mr. Scrope had suffered, al¬ 
most personally, from the scandal of that inci¬ 
dent. His energy had been the core and centre 
of it. He it was who planned the sad search for 
the heir’s body (which came to nothing), who 
prepared statements concerning the mother’s 
mental condition. He had done everything to 
spare Sir Piers, and he well recalled that this 
effort had included a series of advertisements 
for the woman named Mary McNeil. This wo¬ 
man had been young Lady Monkton’s maid at 
the time of her marriage, and her impertinent 
defence of some vagary of her mistress’s had 
caused her instant dismissal by Sir Piers him¬ 
self. Lady Monkton had taken the loss of her 
attendant very hard—hating the trained nurse 
substituted for her. For this reason, Mr. Scrope 
thought that it might well have been Mary Mc¬ 
Neil with whom Lady Monkton passed those 
hours which elapsed before her body was found 
in the Thames, or, if not, that at least Mary 
McNeil would be the person to cast light upon 
her possible reasons for suicide. But the earth 
seemed to have swallowed the woman, and the 
advertisements elicited no response, direct or in¬ 
direct. 

Mr. Scrope knew something of the attitude of 
McNeil’s class; its dread of the law; its intense 
desire to avoid any publicity, which, whatever 
the cause, inevitably resulted in a loss of earning 



224 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


power. Her silence therefore never surprised 
him, and a renewal of advertising after such a 
long period, had been, in his opinion he frankly 
said, a foolish waste of money. He did not fail 
to point out to Charles Ventris that such adver¬ 
tising would probably only bring down upon 
them the annoyance of imposture, and, when an 
elderly north-country woman presented herself 
at his office, he merely had a weary sense of his 
own good judgment. This was not the first in¬ 
terview. After the second, Mr. Scrope had taken 
the serious step of a trunk call to Shank. The 
atmosphere of Lincoln's Inn Fields fosters sus¬ 
picion; nor is it to be supposed that Mr. Scrope 
was prepared to accept the story told him by the 
person calling herself Mary McNeil. But he 

could no longer ignore it. 

The day was one of a warm midsummer and 
even the pale London sunshine glowed at the 
noon hour. The trees seen out of Mr. Scrope’s 
windows were already parched. Standing to 
gaze at them, hands in pockets and humming a 
little tune to himself, was the eminent K. C., Sir 
John Flippin. Mr. Scrope, seated at his desk, 
was a^are of the compliment paid him by this 
gentleman's presence in his office, which had 
been brought about by an interchange of cour¬ 
tesies well-nigh Chinese in character. When it 
was arranged to examine McNeil in the presence 
of the principals, the Claimant had expressed a 
wish that Sir John be also present: whereat Mr. 
Scrope gravely shook his head, demurring that 
this was hardly possible, since McNeil could not 



THE LEGAL MINUET 


225 


properly be taken to Sir John's chambers in the 
Temple. Dick, wholly unaware of the hierarch¬ 
ical sanctities of English legal custom, observed 
with astonishment the ensuing minuet danced by 
solicitor and barrister to effect the desired con¬ 
junction. Sir John, bluff as always, remarked 
that as McNeil couldn’t, he supposed, come to 
him, he’d just drop in informally at eleven 
o’clock. To this Mr. Scrope had interposed a 
shocked protest, that even on so informal occas¬ 
ion he really couldn’t hear of such a thing—fol¬ 
lowed by a “Pooh, pooh!” from Sir John, at 
which the solicitor had capitulated. 

“He much appreciated Sir John’s condescen¬ 
sion—of course McNeil’s appearing at the 
Temple was out of the question—Sir John was 
very good,” and so on and so forth. Dick failed 
to understand why Sir John was so very good; 
but as he came to see more of legal habits, he 
realized that after the lapse of three-quarters of a 
century, Charles Dickens is still their best chron¬ 
icler. 

Sir John came: the long interview took place 
with its varying excitement for all present, and 
its crescendo for Richard. When ended, Mr. 
Scrope’s clerk accompanied McNeil and her com¬ 
panion to the tube station for West Kensington. 
Mr. Scrope himself conducted his clients to the 
street, and his farewell bow to Lady Monkton, 
as she stepped into the car, was full of affection¬ 
ate deference. She said little, as her way was, 
but her eyes brightened and M. Charles smiled 
when Mr. Scrope said: “Au revoir, Sir Richard” 



226 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


while continuing to ignore the puzzled young 
man’s outstretched hand. 

The car, with the three of them, soon vanished 
down the street, and not until then did the solic¬ 
itor return to his office where he had left the 
barrister. Then he reseated himself at his desk 
and busied himself among his papers for a 
moment or two, wholly aware that the really 
important conversation was to come. 

For some moments, Sir John continued to 
hum and look out of the window, and Mr. Scrope 
to wait at his desk, since obviously one couldn’t 
hurry a K. C. When Flippin spoke at length, it 
was plainly not of that which he was consider¬ 
ing. 

“This will make an immense deal of talk, 
Scrope.” 

“Oh quite, Sir John. Very much so, indeed!” 

“I remember the scandal the original affair 
caused when it happened. Sir Piers was lucky in 
having you to handle it for him, else it would 
have been even worse. I remember that even 
Her Majesty, the Old Queen, was shocked when 
she heard of it. But it was skilfully hushed up; 
very, in my opinion.” 

Mr. Scrope looked gratified, as he felt. “It was 
an extremely painful affair, Sir John. But on ac¬ 
count of Shank I did my best. And I always felt 
the poor little lady must have been quite mad.” 

“Did you, now? Well, I can’t say that I did. 
.... Of course it was before I took silk and I was 
too busy to be going about much—but still one 


THE LEGAL MINUET 


227 


hears things and there were people who thought 
that Lucy Monkton had cause, y'know!" 

Mr. Scrope shifted some papers on his desk, 
and looked as if he would like to take snuff if he 
had only known how. “As to that, Sir John, I 
can't deny I know what you mean—as man of 
the world. Sir Piers perhaps was rather too wed¬ 
ded to Shank to be a really ardent bridegroom—" 

“He was a poor bigamist—as I remember!" 

“And—ah—there must have been incompati¬ 
bility—but of course the lady was insane." 

“I heard you just now address the young 
gentleman as Sir Richard?" 

Mr. Scrope laughed a thought self-consciously. 
“Well, in Lady Monkton's presence—and more 
out of compliment to her, I did venture. Then, 
after the really remarkable testimony we had 
been hearing—" 

“But, I say, Scrope, what was the child's name 
—not Richard now?" 

“On account of the mother’s health, the infant 
had not been christened. Of course he would 
have been Piers the seventh. But the Claimant 
won’t hear of a change—and 'twill do very well! 
There was a Richard during James II, if my 
memory holds," Mr. Scrope explained. 

“I see." And Sir John again shifted away 
from the subject which lay between them by say¬ 
ing, as he came from the window and took a chair 
near the solicitor, “The Claimant and I met on 
shipboard. I found him a most engaging lad, 
but if I mistake not he is going to prove some¬ 
thing of a disappointment to Charles Ventris. 


228 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

He is by no means so docile as he appears.” Then 
as Scrope looked puzzled he added: “The suc¬ 
cession lies close to Ventris’ heart on account of 
his hatred of Lycett Monkton. That I realize is 
a factor, as you must. The question is how much 
of a factor?” 

“Even if this be true, Sir John—and no doubt 
Mr. Ventris’ feeling about Shank has caused 
him to pursue this enquiry very hard—still, one 
can’t get over the letters, and the story, can one?” 

Sir John drew his heavy brows together and 
dropped the superficial tone he had been using 
for one more serious and professional. 

“Quite so. I don’t deny, Scrope, the evidence 
was very striking. I was impressed by it—and 
I’m not surprised that you were. When I first 
saw the lad, I knew him for a very Monkton. 
Still there are points which one must take up, 
because if one doesn’t, the Attorney-General is 
bound to. Its being a Baronetcy is awkward. 
The Royal Warrant of 1910 is hardly enough— 
such cases ought to come before the Committee 
of Privileges—” 

“Oh, I can’t agree with you there, Sir John— 
the petition through the Home Secretary—” 

But Sir John brushed away* the technicalities 
involved in the assumption of a Baronetcy, in 
order to get back to his main theme. 

.“For instance, did McNeil account to you con¬ 
vincingly for her silence at the time of Lady 
Monkton’s death and since?” 

“I think,” Scrope answered him modestly but 
firmly, “that the truth of her story best accounts 


THE LEGAL MINUET 


229 


for it. For, mark, Sir John, if she had no reason 
to remain silent, would she have done so? 
Doesn’t this explain it?” 

Sir John appeared struck. 

“She had no witnesses to support her story!” 

“Lady Monkton identifies her as Mary Mc¬ 
Neil.” 

“And that’s enough, of course. But after¬ 
wards? The vague part of the whole seems to 
me that she cannot produce anyone who saw her 
with the infant which she had care of for some 
twelve or fifteen hours.” 

“That doesn’t seem strange to me when you 
recall how such people live!” 

“There must have been servants at Mr. Rich¬ 
ard Monkton’s house at Chelsea. If we adver¬ 
tise—” 

“It’s twenty-four years past, Sir John, with the 
War between. Moreover, it’s unfortunate she 
doesn’t remember just whereabouts the house 
was. As to that, there may be a clue in the States, 
though I am not sanguine.” 

“There may be....The case itself, and the 
status of the Claimant are new to me,” Sir John 
pursued with an inward eye. “We’ve had Claim¬ 
ants down to modern times. The Annesley Case 
—the Douglas Cause—the Tichborne Case. The 
first comes the nearest to this, I believe. Here, 
you see, is no question opened as to birth of an 
heir, or his legitimacy. He is known to have ex¬ 
isted—to have been stolen by his mother and not 
seen after. The question is — was the child 
drowned or did McNeil take it to Mrs. Richard 


230 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

Monkton, and is this lad her child or Lady Monk- 
ton’s child? That is the problem.” 

“Much complicated by the fact that the Monk- 
tons were Americans. Travellers in those days 
struck no roots and cannot be followed. But I did 
ask Sir—I mean the Claimant—if no letters could 
be found which would settle that point and he 
told me he feared not,” Mr. Scrope said, taking 
off his eye-glasses. 

“He explained the cause to me long before I 
knew he claimed anything—or he knew it him¬ 
self. The War drew its eraser over that family 
and obliterated all traces. There was a little 
tragedy in Philadelphia.” 

“Tut—tut—tut,” said Mr. Scrope sympatheti¬ 
cally. “Still, there ought to be somebody—some 
friend or relative in whom Mrs. Richard Monk- 
ton would confide if she expected or had borne a 
child in England?” 

“The lad tells me not. I mean,” Sir John cor¬ 
rected, “not anyone now living who would be 
likely to have preserved such letters, of which the 
dates are so vital. His own appearance in his 
native place in due course was natural and not 
questioned by anyone. No: there is no lead in 
the States, I fear.” 

A pause fell, which was broken by Mr. Scrope 
who was a little busier than the barrister that 
morning. “Little can be done in the matter till 
the Michaelmas Term. Meanwhile I shall bestir 
myself, as there must be another examination of 
McNeil—and affidavits must be taken— This 
fellow Coles—” 


THE LEGAL MINUET 231 

“I do not like his looks. That tilted head is 
hateful.” 

“Nor I—and his intention is undisguised. But 
still, he is frank enough about it, which is to his 
credit. The letters are apparently genuine. Their 
evidence is of value. Meanwhile the petition 
must be made through the Home Secretary.” 

“Of course. You will keep me informed?” 

“You are very good, Sir John. I appreciate it, 
and I shall do myself the honor to wait on you 
with anything new that may turn up.” 

Sir John assured him that a clerk with a mes¬ 
sage was all that was necessary, while Mr. Scrope 
deprecated such an unimaginable proceeding as 
his sending his clerk to Sir John’s chambers in¬ 
stead of coming himself. The atmosphere in fact 
had resumed its chinoiserie, which of course 
meant that the conference was about to termi¬ 
nate. Mr. Scrope conducted his guest downstairs 
with some ceremony and a “Mind the turn, Sir 
John,” and did allow himself to add slyly, by way 
of farewell: “Present my compliments to Sir 
Richard when you see him and tell him I am 
happy to serve him. By the way, Mr. Ventris has 
personally arranged for the payment of a suitable 
allowance. Thank you—good-bye!” 

Of these words, Sir John was thinking as he 
made his way, a little later, along St. James’s to 
his Club. What a romance in the life of this 
young man! And how lucky for Charles Ventris 
to make such a find as this marvellous Canticles 
over which collectors were gloating, just at the 
moment when prices for such things were at the 


232 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


peak! The Duke of Bradford, it was said, had 
offered £8,000, and there were Americans in the 
market who might go even higher. Very fortu¬ 
nate for Ventris, who loved luxury and spent a 
great deal of money—particularly since he was 
backing the Claimant—and Sir John gave a wry 
smile, reflecting how much more natural it was 
to his habit of mind to say the Claimant than the 
facile title given by Mr. Scrope. “My dear Boy,” 
was a greeting more natural still, and it was this 
Dick received when he appeared at his appoint¬ 
ment to lunch with the K. C. He looked well, 
very handsome, his host thought, and less excited 
than one might have expected. 

Sir John was not wholly free from the vanity 
of liking to be “in the know.” Well aware that 
various persons present at his Club would im¬ 
mediately guess his tall guest to be the Monkton 
Claimant, of whom everybody was talking, he 
was gratified that they could see for themselves 
the Claimant’s engaging exterior. Richard was 
bound to be interested in everything—the view 
of St. James’s with the tall-hatted brigade hasten¬ 
ing to its luncheon; the pictures and relics and 
traditions of the Club itself, which had been a 
famous gambling place in the 18th century and 
which still put a guinea aside from each member’s 
dues to pay the gambling debts of Charles James 
Fox. Sir John presented his young friend to one 
or two cronies, and noted the effect upon them. 
One elderly man, with shaggy white hair, gouty 
hands and a temperish mouth, looked the youth 


THE LEGAL MINUET 233 

over as he sprang from the table and y growled 
out: 

"Monkton? Which Monkton? Monkton of 
Shank? I thought I knew the eyebrows.” 

Dick looked at Sir John as the old gentleman 
passed on down the room. 

"Yes, ’tis remarkable. The likeness,” Sir John 
agreed, "struck me from the start on the ship. 
You’ll have to get used to the name, my lad. I 
mean Monkton of Shank.” 

"I guess so,” Dick admitted. 

"Scrope tells me Ventris has arranged with 
him that you shall have a proper allowance.” 

The young man went on eating his luncheon. 
"I have decided,” he said quietly, "that I shall 
not accept it.” 

He spoke so composedly that Sir John, who 
did not surprise easily, stared at him as if unable 
to believe his ears. 

"But—damn it all! Why not ?” 

"Oh, well, I feel that way about it,” was Dick’s 
half-apologetic explanation. "You were quite all 
right about the passage-money cheque, and I was 
an ass. ’Twould have been awfully rude to return 
it. But this is different, somehow. Suppose it 
turns out against me? Suppose they turn me 
down? I’ve still enough of my own to put up, 
till it’s definitely decided whether I am Monkton 
of Shank or just—Monkton of Philadelphia.” 

"And how much is that?” his host asked, with 
national bluntness. 

"Why-y- all told it’s just about £200—-a thou¬ 
sand dollars,” Dick announced hesitating. 


234 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Sir John snorted; his substitute for a laugh. 
“My dear young friend—that won't go anywhere 

in England, as you'll find. I fear-Why, 

clothes alone_and you'll have to have a man¬ 

servant—" 

“I won't have to have anything I don't want 
and can’t pay for," Dick announced. “This is a 
country of individual freedom, and most of you 
seem to do what you like." 

Sir John admitted the truth of this, but pro¬ 
tested till Dick broke in: “You see—it's this way. 
Suppose—it's decided against me? M. Charles 
has been tremendously kind. I'd rather not go 
in debt to him,—Shank is sufficiently in debt to 
him as it is. When you think," said Dick, warm¬ 
ing to his theme, “of his devotion to the place and 
how he looks after it and Lady Monkton, just 
because she is his best friend's wife! It's wonder¬ 
ful—why, he's like an American!" 

There were naivetes in this speech before 
which Sir John felt a certain hesitancy. A cur¬ 
ious independence and sensitiveness about money 
he had noticed in Dick from the first—and he had 
before across the water encountered it as a para¬ 
dox in a nation which pursued the dollar so ar¬ 
dently. Americans, Sir John reflected, were often 
recklessly indifferent to money, perhaps because 
they had more chance to get it than the elder 
world had. There were other barbaric idealisms 
evident in Dick, which presented difficulties. 
These he supposed were individual since he had 
not met them in the cynical and acrid world 
of New York, which was all the America he 


THE LEGAL MINUET 


235 


knew. He thereupon asked his guest one or two 
very plain questions about what he supposed to 
underlie the chivalrous and quixotic attitude of 
M. Charles toward his late friend’s wife, and he 
was decidedly jarred to find that Dick frankly 
considered M. Charles long past the age of any 
possible or impossible sentiment for the other 
sex. 

“What? At his age?” he asked, opening large 
eyes upon his host, and Sir John winced, because 
he was several years older than Charles Ventris. 
The disconcerting value placed on mere youth by 
the American is always extremely shocking to 
middle-aged Englishmen. 

“Not for an instant would I minimize M. 
Charles’s service to the Monktons,” he cautiously 
observed, pouring himself a glass of claret. — 

“Won’t you have your glass re-filled? No?- 

The nation owes him a debt—And his generosity 
to yourself—admirable! But—in regard to—ah! 
other relations in life—don’t delude yourself, my 
boy. The lady is gettin’ on—and, mind, I don’t 

say Sir Piers ever noticed anything.but the 

rest of London, did—. ’Tis an old story now.” A 
faint amusement tinged Sir John’s matter-of-fact 
features when he noticed that his companion 
looked uncomfortable. “Surely—now—as man 
of the worlds—you didn’t expect it was purely 
platonic—all that, did you? It wouldn’t be like¬ 
ly, now would it?” 

“It would at home.” Dick asserted loyally, and 
Sir John twinkled outright. 

“Oh come, now, come, come! Even if I grant 




236 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


you to be idealists—with an amazin’ attitude to¬ 
ward your women, (which we think very un¬ 
wholesome for ’em), still, ain’t you a Puritan, 
rather? After all—many years—a liaison sacre 
—I fancy you have ’em in Philadelphia?” 

When Dick, still silent, shook his head, Sir 
John added: “Oh, but my dear lad! Look at your 
divorces!” in tones which were evidently in¬ 
tended to be final. 


CHAPTER XX 

ALLEGORY OF THE TREE OF LIFE 

D ICK'S fortnight in London was crowded: 

there were houses to see, people to meet. 
The houses stood in the blue mist of Chelsea 
down by the river; or in spacious Mayfair squares, 
with high railings around the plane trees; or in 
neat Georgian “Crescents;” or in stucco rows 
looking upon Regent's Park, or each in a mass of 
rhododendron with the name “Lucknow Villa” or 
“Cawnpore Lodge” on the gate. They all seemed 
to his ideas full of inconvenient comfort, repose¬ 
ful, large, leisurely. All contained things: Bat¬ 
tersea enamels, Staffordshire, Worcestershire," 
Derbyshire pottery, wonderful glass, tapestry, 
paintings, Italian triptychs and primitives in 
Tite Street; chinoiseries, and ancestral Rey¬ 
nolds and Hoppners in Mayfair and Park Lane. 
It made one's head spin to think of all those 
houses, with their air of discreet reticence and 
the wonderful old things inside of them. He be¬ 
came aware that not merely Mr. Ventris and Sir 
John and Lady Monkton knew about such ob¬ 
jects, but a whole class learned ancientry along 

237 


238 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


with its background and its traditions. He ob¬ 
served that when the English began to argue on 
points of architecture, or periods, or on the rela¬ 
tive merits of red and white lacquer, it was just 
as well for an American to hold his peace and 
learn. 

The apartment at Monkton House was his 
home and, under the bright materializing influ¬ 
ence of midsummer sunshine, the rooms lost their 
air of mystery and became familiar, although 
remaining picturesque. To Dick’s imagination, 
the furtive retirement of its back street, the great 
bare palace which housed this small, brilliant 
place, were unique—he never entered without a 
thrill. They seemed to revive an almost in¬ 
solently secure and leisured past: they gave a 
romantic setting to his excited thoughts. Mean¬ 
while the garden door stayed locked nor did Dick 
venture to ask any questions concerning his first 
night’s experience. Under the circumstances, it 
would have seemed ungracious, and besides, it 
now partook of a dream quality. He was wholly 
under M. Charles’s influence and moulded to M. 
Charles’s will, with one exception. That excep¬ 
tion concerned money, a question whereon they 
had more than one argument. M. Charles main¬ 
tained that an allowance belonged to Dick al¬ 
ready by right and should therefore be considered 
merely as an advance. He pointed out that Sir 
Richard Monkton owed his friends a good ap¬ 
pearance and the proper standard of his class. To 
this the younger man steadfastly opposed his 
own view, that he was not Sir Richard Monkton 


THE TREE OF LIFE 


239 


until pronounced so by law, and that until so 
pronounced he preferred to be under as few obli¬ 
gations as possible. M. Charles expected him to 
give way, but he did not give way; for once the 
elder man met a will as strong as his own. He 
was finally forced to submit, which he did with 
a shrug and an aside to Denise Monkton that he 
hoped it was not an indication they would find 
the boy less manageable than they had expected. 
It surprised him, being his first experience of the 
paradoxical American, who may love money, but 
does not reverence it, as the Englishman does. 
That any sane person should refuse an allowance 
from an open and honorable source, was as in¬ 
credible to Charles Ventris as that one should 
take time away from the study of old manuscripts 
in order to earn a little more—he failed utterly 
to see it. The friends dropped the subject, after 
an appeal to Mr. Scrope in which he said little 
but, “God bless my soul !” or “Can it be possible?” 
and bewildered Dick by allusions to his “quix¬ 
otic” attitude—sending that young man away 
with the sensation of deep and abiding amaze¬ 
ment. 

Mr. Scrope however, and his astute client, failed 
not to make advertising capital out of the Claim¬ 
ant’s stand, which, dexterously directed, was not 
without effect. Dick found himself quite help¬ 
lessly “Sir Richard” to the welcoming world he 
encountered. He had possessed a full share of 
the transatlantic illusion that the English are a 
cautious race, never realizing that at bottom they 
are sentimental and romantic, with so vast a heap 


240 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


of medieval tinder piled about their daily lives, 
that any spark of chance may set it ablaze. Dick’s 
good looks, the twist to his eye-brows, the ready 
quirk to his speech and the smile which he turned 
to the world—these were quite enough of them¬ 
selves in certain great houses to make him “Sir 
Richard” and no longer the Claimant. More¬ 
over, Lycett Monkton had never been known in 
London and many people felt they had rather see 
him exploring the Antarctic than as the owner of 
Shank. 

Now all this was very pleasant and gratifying 
to Charles Ventris, who undoubtedly liked his 
ward the more when he found that others liked 
him. He took Dick about among his friends, 
male and female, and these were many. He knew 
everyone in London. There were huge, bluff, 
early-Victorian nobles and slight, frail, retired 
representatives of great families: there were ac¬ 
tive, pallid, Americanized politicians, sporting 
men from the shires, actors and writers, poets 
and barristers. There were experts and authori¬ 
ties on everything from Hindu shrines, to Shaks- 
perean sports and Baxter prints. There were tall 
and lovely ladies who looked Dick level in the 
eyes, had deep voices, unfashionable clothes and 
superb pearls. There were kind, clever old Duch¬ 
esses, clinging to life through the young around 
them and hung with garlands of early-Victorian 
anecdote, like stately buildings for a festival. 
There were crusty, crabbed, delightful scholars 
and antiquarians: and there were individualities 
that seemed highly colored indeed, to one bred 


THE TREE OF LIFE 


241 


in a society where the first object seems always 
to. lose one’s individuality as quickly as may be. 
Dick particularly loved those people who “didn’t 
do this” or “always wore that”: the nobleman 
who always carried home his own rolls from the 
baker’s: the other who lifted an umbrella equally 
against sun and rain; the one who always wore a 
black,satin stock. People could afford to be ec¬ 
centric in this land of the free. 

By contrast of course, this custom made the 
rather highly-colored personality of M. Charles 
more natural, but he did not lose his charm 
thereby. Talks with his host remained the great 
pleasure of Dick’s existence. They sat together 
late under the light of golden bulbs and enshrined 
in green-blue tapestries. Facing Dick, as he lis¬ 
tened, was that little, rare canvas begun by Bel¬ 
lini, finished by Titian and hung against a curtain 
as crimson as wine. It was known as the “Sixth 
Allegory”—and was as mysterious as its name. 
Next it glowed a Giorgione like a black opal. It 
was a third of the Scripture scenes of which two 
others hung in the Uffizi and which M. Charles 
treasured in a passion of pride. These were what 
Dick’s gaze rested on while Charles Ventris ran 
on about earlier days, how he had discovered the 
Treyze Hystoires; how his work on the Monkton 
Missal traced its pedigree back to the great li¬ 
brary at Pomposa, near Ravenna. He described 
the journeys he and Piers Monkton had taken on 
the Continent, “voyages of discovery,” he called 
them. 

“Often we left the carriage in the towns and 


242 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


went afoot through the villages. Piers was a 
splendid walker... .Such settings out in golden 
mornings, when the poplars were all a-quiver in 
the breeze! The sunshine and clouds of those 
dawns, Diccon, dappled the fields till they looked 
like a page of the Canticles. I remember one 
little hamlet where I got a Horae that's now in 
the British Museum, besides three mass books I 
sold for over £300 apiece. And there were other 

things—pottery, enamels, gold-work.The 

writing, Piers and I did together; very soon the 
Shank collections were so talked of that anything 
from them brought the top price... .we needed 
money terribly just then—so we sold as well as 
bought, and trimmed the collections into perfect 
form. By and by, your mother’s estate-—” he 
paused, seeing his hearer’s look and added, with 
gentleness, “Don’t be troubled about that old 
story, my dear lad. She was not herself you 
know, and imagined things... .1 did think Piers 
to blame and even said so. It takes little to satis¬ 
fy women and they might as well have it.... And 
after all she tried her best to keep you out of your 
inheritance.” 

He waited, but the young man made no com¬ 
ment, either in words or by any lightening in the 
gravity of his expression, so M. Charles turned 
tactfully to the subject of his early friends and 
spoke of that group of experts, to whom the 19th 
century owed so large a debt in its knowledge of 
the past. 

“We had a Supper Club for years—George 
Salting—wonderful fella! He knew more about 



THE TREE OF LIFE 


243 


Oriental art than the rest of us have forgotten, 
and Woollaston Franks, who used to stay at 
Shank for weeks and weeks... .’Twas Franks 
arranged our medieval rooms—he died the year 
you were born... .Yes: he was much my senior 
and so was Charles Newton, with whom I used 
to stay at Mitylene... .but for the matter of that, 
so was Piers....” 

For a moment of recollection, he sat while the 
smoke of his cigarette veiled the cameo of his 
face. 

“Well, well — they were good days — those 
when the world was just rubbing its eyes over 
the beauty left in it and before it started to maul 
civilization to pieces as a child tears up a box of 
old toys! There’s only one thing really worth 

living for, Diccon — and that’s beauty_I’d 

have died in the flames of Troy joyfully enough, 
could I have saved Helen.” 

“I can see you!” Dick said and smiled. 

“Then too it was good to be a part of the Great 
World, very good. Rank and estates and wealth 
are all good things, as you’ll come to appreciate 
one of these days.” 

“Shall I? I’m not so sure.” 

“Oh, you will! It’s this way, Diccon,” He had 
been laughing silently for an instant and then 
began to talk again, painting a picture in vivid 
words as his way was. 

“There’s a Bellini in the Uffizi—(We’ll run 
over to Florence in the spring when this tedious 
business is done)—They call it Allegory of the 
Tree of Life, but they don’t seem to know what 


244 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


it means. I know. The foreground is an enclos¬ 
ure—a pale, white marble balustrade enclosing a 
patterned marble floor. That's the Church, you 
see. The Tree of Life grows in the middle, with 
Amoretti playing about and a Madonna, compan¬ 
ioned with saints and virtues, smiles and prays 
from a throne in the corner. Her militant saints, 
theologians — Augustine is evidently one, and 
perhaps Jerome with a sword, the other—lean 
over the paling to protect it; and the saints within 
are the spiritual ones—St. Sebastian, a youth tall 
as a lily, pierced with arrows, and beside him 
that wild, naked, brown St. Anthony of Egypt.. 

. .. .Within the pale of the Church it's all order, 

and peace and beauty.Without, is the 

World with clouds lowering and precipices and 
horrid cliffs—all danger and fear. There are 
Pomps and Vanities on a hill: and young lovers 
meeting; and human toil—because a shepherd 
rests in his cot and a man belabors a donkey. 
And in one corner—isn't it too delightful?—a 
holy hermit is in conversation with a centaur!" 

His inward-turned smile was full of satis¬ 
faction. 

“Well—if we turn the allegory into a worldly 
one for our purposes—'twill serve my meaning! 
I've lived outside , myself, Diccon, most of us do 
'cause we have to and it is terrible, full of fear, 
and bitter winds and lowering storms.” 

“But there were love and toil, you said?” 

“True: but those are within, too! Ah, Diccon, 
within the pale is best; one may be safe with 
wealth and beauty to make life worth while.” 



THE TREE OF LIFE 


245 


The American considered this philosophy and 
finally returned his friend a whimsical glance. 

“The thing I’d want most out of the lot is 
beyond the pale,” he observed, “To talk with the 
centaur, I mean.” 

M. Charles turned his head to regard him and 
made an odd rejoinder. 

“Ah well, as to that,” he said, “you’ve already 
mounted the centaur, Diccon, and may go with 
him some distance!” 

A clock chimed: and M. Charles sprang lightly 
up. 

“How I run on—but you’re a good listener, my 

lad.It’s/ getting late and we are due at 

Lady Garth’s. Yes.I promised her I’d 

bring you in—She says everybody has been talk¬ 
ing about you. Quite a lion, aren’t you?. 

and I believe in pleasing women—if it’s no 
trouble. 

“So we do at home,” the other responded. 

“I should say you did! By the way,” Mr. Ven- 
tris lowered his musical voice and examined the 
tip of his cigarette, “You don’t talk about the 
sex much, my young friend, and I’ve never asked 
you—lots of affairs in Philadelphia?” 

Dick shrugged. “No. I’ve girl friends there 
of course. Not that I’ve written to them much 
because—well, this whole business is hard to 
explain.” 

“Pretty girls?” 

“Of course.” 

“With lots of dollars?” 






246 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Dick stiffened. “How should I know? We’ve 
danced together—skated—played tennis—” 

“I see. Not tied up to any of ’em, eh?” 

“Not much! With only a clerkship in the Trust 
Company and not even started at that!” 

The other looked at him, thinking, as more 
than once before during that week “Odd, but 
he simply won’t accept the change!” while aloud 
he observed, “Just so. You’ve met two or three 
pretty ones here, haven’t you ? Lady Cecily, for 
example—how did she strike you?” 

“You mean that young giantess with bales of 
hair, who didn’t say anything except to ask me 
for a light ? I thought she was larger than life- 
size—I prefer them drawn to scale myself.” 

Mr. Ventris had small taste for transatlantic 
humor. “She would be perfectly suitable—the 
Faulkners have money and there are some good 
pictures in the Dower house. We’ve got to think 

of Shank, you know.’Course, there are 

others and by the next season you ought to be in 
a position to go regularly about. Still—it’s 
never too early to think of Shank.” 

“For you, sir, I know it is not,” Monkton 
answered, but Mr. Ventris did not even perceive 
the half irony under his young friend’s affection¬ 
ate smile. 

“Lady Monkton will have some autumn house- 
parties—she knows many charmers who are—er 
—of the family’s friends. I’ve noticed that our 
American cousins sometimes don’t fall victims 
as quickly as we do—is that true?” 

“Depends—but I guess it is,” Dick answered 



THE TREE OF LIFE 


247 


reflectively—“You seem to go in for being in 
love over here the way you go in for pictures and 
books—to add to your collections. You—er— 
specialize in it more.” 

“You think so? Well, perhaps we do.” M. 
Charles smiled his secret smile. “Women, dear 
Diccon, are an exquisite pursuit; love is a delicate 
art, mysterious and alluring as Leonardo’s—but 
more fleeting! All art, I agree, paints life with 
brilliant colors, but those of love are evanes¬ 
cent. However,” he proceeded gently, his eyes 
resting on his ward with an odd gleam in their 
depths, “I myself have never given it close at¬ 
tention because I chose to devote my life to sat¬ 
isfactions more permanent.” He purred. “In 
your country you allow for a change of taste, 
they tell me, by frequent divorces—very con¬ 
venient that, eh?” 

Richard was indignant. 

“They do talk more rot about us!” he replied 
warmly. “We may make a hash of it at times, but 
we—that is, fellows I know—expect to get mar¬ 
ried and stay married.We look for a cer¬ 
tain sort of girl, too, a girl with sense..Girls 

at home are perfectly splendid!.The only 

one I’ve seen at all in their class since I landed,” 
was his unexpected conclusion, “is Miss Lang.” 

“Miss Lang!” 

“Yes: there’s a girl with energy and brains. 
I like to talk to her; she knows things. Why, at 
home we’d think her just the finest kind.” 

Mr. Ventris was looking at him. 

“She is a most estimable young woman, and I 





248 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


believe well-born,” he remarked, and there was 
an icy chime in his voice; “but of course I wasn't 
considering that kind of a person.” 

“Why? Wasn't Lady Monktori herself that 
kind of a person?” 

The question was so direct that M. Charles 
could only veil his discomfiture under a rare fit of 
laughter, which touched his face for the moment 
with an unpleasant expression. Soon, however, 
the jar passed, and he looked kindly on his ward 
again. But Dick, too, had been jarred. 

People's minds are like houses: some are small 
and close, with dirty corners. Others are clean 
enough, but bare and comfortless, or cluttered 
with cheap, modern ideas. Those of us who have 
been admitted to the hospitality of some stately 
mind, firmly built, graciously colored, and filled 
with the stores which learning and taste have 
gathered together, shall not soon forget its 
spacious peace. The mind of M. Charles was a 
Gothic building, carved and strangely rich, but 
dimly lit, and with shadowy recesses. It was 
indeed fascinating, but one did not move easily 
about in it, and some of the rooms gave one a 
little disquiet. Dick had to remind himself of 
M. Charles' great, great kindness to keep from 
choking on a certain cynicism in the elder's at¬ 
titude toward life. Strange, to find so devout a 
worshipper of art so scornful of the artificer! 

Much of this opinion, of course, was held 
by an older and wearier society—one which 
had been too often deceived to have any illusion 
left regarding the duration of human affections. 


THE TREE OF LIFE 


249 


Beside their impermanency, the Past appeared 
alone enduring in its visual and tactual remains. 
To preserve these seemed to such as Charles 
Ventris a task really worth while, perhaps the 
only task in life really worth while. The beauty 
and ease with which he surrounded his existence, 
were assumed as a means of maintaining it in the 
proper key. For such service the acolyte must 
live delicately. He hoped to teach his young 
friend this in time; meanwhile, he dealt with cer¬ 
tain vague antagonisms, in a manner full of 
sweetness and patience. Dick felt this. One 
disapproved, at moments, of M. Charles, but one 
found him very lovable. 


CHAPTER XXI 

A GILT-HANDLED DAGGER 

B ETWEEN Lincoln’s Inn Fields and much an¬ 
tiquarian business, the days passed quickly. 
M. Charles was planning for his forthcoming sale, 
which centred about the Canticles and to which 
he intended adding other long-hoarded treasures 
of manuscript. These he showed to Dick, pull¬ 
ing them one by one from their cabinet, expatiat¬ 
ing, explaining, admiring. These included sev¬ 
eral Books of Hour; Psalteria; Persian Tales and 
a Firdusi of an elaborate richness; Epistolse S. 
Hierom, whose initials were entwined with gro¬ 
tesques; and a 15th century Froissart, contain¬ 
ing pictures of kings and castles and battles, in a 
binding of gold-embroidered velvet. 

“All these had better go,” he said, “since they 
have been here long enough to have my cachet 
and the time may come, Diccon, when you and 
Shank will need me no longer?” 

The other only shook his head at the half-sly 
look that slipped out with these words; for both 
made him uncomfortable. 

The announcement that these beautiful things 

250 


A GILT-HANDLED DAGGER 


251 


were to be placed on exhibition, preparatory to a 
sale “from the famous collection of the distin¬ 
guished palasographist Charles Ventris, Esq.” 
gathered together, in short order, an audience of 
enthusiasts. By them M. Charles was immedi¬ 
ately surrounded and swam in his element, both 
as expert authority and man of the world. If 
the great Canticles, blazing on its velvet throne 
like a crowned monarch, surrounded by a crowd 
of lesser lights as courtiers, seemed to Dick 
Monkton almost unbelievably beautiful—so M. 
Charles seemed almost unbelievably clever and 
informed. Nothing he did not know—nothing 
his ready smile and sparkling eyes could not 
make interesting. He fulfilled himself so utterly; 
he expanded so fully, that there were times when 
he seemed like a great actor, superbly acting 
himself. Did this mean that there were times 
when he seemed a trifle strained, artificial? 
Perhaps. 

As for his friends and fellow collectors, Dick 
found their personalities rich and high flavored 
and their kindness great. They were gracious 
to Monkton of Shank. All of them seemed im¬ 
mersed in a deep well of the Past, out of which 
no one of them willingly lifted his head. One and 
all seemed to have Shank, as it were at their 
finger-tips. Mr. Porter Meesom crossed the 
room when Dick entered, to enquire interestedly 
into the state of the Genoa velvet chair cover¬ 
ings in the Green Gallery—he had been making 
researches into the life of 15th century textiles. 
Brymfield Hill was working up an article for 


252 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


the “Connoisseur” on ornamental lead drain- 

heads.and old Sir Peter Pyke, though he 

looked as blind as a bat, yet was presented to 
Dick as “a great Sir Joshua man” and went into 
growling raptures over his recollection of Lady 
Molly Monkton’s silken scarf. 

Delightful to come in contact with this en¬ 
thusiasm, to be in sympathy with it, to realize 
that one might be part of it, to feel the touch 
of M. Charles’s hand—a caressing affectionate 
touch on one’s arm and to hear him say—“My 
young friend, Sir Peter, is a very Monkton—he 
has the real love—you cannot deny that!” Yes: 
it was wonderful. If there had not been other 
moments— 

One day as Dick sat reading, the butler came 
to tell him that Coles had arrived and wished a 
word with him. Mr. Ventris was out; so there 
was nothing for it but assent, although Dick, 
when he gave this assent, was renewedly con¬ 
scious of a distaste, not only for Coles, but for 
that whole question of identity which centred in 
this man’s testimony. Vividly there returned to 
his mind that interview in Lincoln’s Inn Fields 
when he had first seen this man and the woman 
McNeil. The picture rose up before him. He 
saw a very fat old woman, with white hair 
smoothed down on either side of her round face, 
wearing a new black shawl with a crease in it 
and new shiny boots. She wore a neat bonnet, 
and couldn’t have looked more respectable if she 
had tried. She had steady eyes, fixed on Mr. 
Scrope and, as she talked and talked and talked, 




A GILT-HANDLED DAGGER 


253 


she gave one the effect of listening carefully to 
what she was saying—evidently, she was no fool. 
Her fat hands lay in her lap and the fingers of 
her gloves stuck out limply. Her manner toward 
himself had been one of affectionate, if restrained 
deference. “I 'eld 'im in these ITarms!” she did 
declare pathetically, but only once was this note 
struck.most of her narrative was unemo¬ 

tional, business-like. 

He had noticed that she didn't seem to show 
any special intimacy with her nephew-in-law. 
Coles, in fact, during McNeil's examination, had 
sat a trifle sulkily, looking out of the window and 
shuffling his feet. He was a man of the rodent 
type, with projecting teeth; a thin man, a little 
bent: with vaguely hostile eyes. There are a 
great many men of his kind in the London streets. 
Before the War, they used to lurch out of public 
houses and sleep on park benches, and thrust 
their whining appeals into cab-windows at street 
corners. Since the War, they walk about more 
openly and a new note has come into their voices. 
Many have fought and fought bravely. They 
will fight again if they get the chance and 
they care not at all who it is they fight against. 
Coles was perfectly sober whenever Dick saw 
him, yet one was sure he was not always sober. . 
... .he was frank—that at least was in favor. He 
was in this thing for money—he said so plainly 
•—it was a good thing for him the day he had 

chanced on those letters!.He had taken 

them to Charles Ventris first because Sir Lycett 
Monkton was not available. He made no parade 




254 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


of honesty, he made no reference to non-exist¬ 
ent respectability—but there was nothing defin¬ 
ite against the man except that he had lived on 
his wife. The picture in Richard’s mind pro¬ 
longed itself until the subject of it was standing 
in the doorway, hat in hand and carrying his 
head, as he always did, a trifle on one side. 

Then he nodded at the visitor, a little coldly. 
No: he did not like Coles, that was certain. He 
did not like Coles and he did not like McNeil, 
while in the bottom of his heart he a little won¬ 
dered that the effect of their personalities seemed 
to count for so little in the minds of Mr. Ventris 
and Sir John and Scrope. Dick thought McNeil 
confident and smirking, and he thought Coles 
furtive and insolent. Now, as the man tilted his 
head to look at him—although his voice and 
manner were respectful—Dick was freshly aware 
of this dislike. 

“Mr. Ventris being out, Sir Richard, I thought 
I might venture—? I’ll take only a momink of 
your time.” 

“Yes—of course. What can I do for you?” 

Coles advanced a step nearer, his head almost 
on his shoulder, and went on in his servile voice: 
“W’y, the fact is, Sir Richard, that Mrs. McNeil 
and me don’t think we’re being treated just right 
—if I may s’y so. When we was told to come 
forward, Sir Richard, with what we knew, we ex¬ 
pected as we would be treated liberal. If it ’adn’t 
been for us—and perticler for Mrs. McNeil— 
things wouldn’t ’ave gone so smooth for you now, 
would they?” 


A GILT-HANDLED DAGGER 


255 


“What do you mean?” Monkton asked and 
stared at him and something in the frank stare 
irritated Coles. 

“Wot I mean is that a n’undred pounds ’ere 
and there isn’t anythink!” he said and Dick’s 
amazement increased at the bullying edge to his 
voice, “wot with taxes and all—it isn’t enough— 

that’s wot I mean.I wouldn’t ’ave left my 

job and worked like I ’ave done for just a beggar¬ 
ly ’undred pound. Not in this kind of a case! 
McNeil and me we wants big money and we’ll 
not trail down to Lincoln’s Inn Fields and kick 
our ’eels in Mr. Scrope’s office unless we get it— 
to say nothink—” 

“Coles! You here?” Mr. Ventris stood in the 
doorway. He held his shining hat in his hand 
and his chin was up. His eyes looked beyond 
Dick and blazed upon Coles. 

“How dare you intrude upon Sir Richard—in 
his own house?” 

This intensity of voice and gaze was too much 
for Coles. He shuffled his feet and his tones 
dropped into a whine. “I was only tryin’ to tell 
Sir Richard, sir,—you wasn’t home—that I didn’t 
think—” 

“You will come outside if you wish to talk to 
me. 

Mr. Ventris held open the door in a concen¬ 
trated white fury, which gave Dick a new and 
rather startling impression of his temper. The 
man hesitated, then slunk out. For awhile, 
there came a mutter of voices, then the heels o£ 



256 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Coles clattered down the stairs and silence 
followed. 

Mr. Ventris re-entered the room, evidently still 
discomposed. His mouth twitched with anger, 
but he said nothing until he had lighted a sooth¬ 
ing cigarette and flung himself down in his chair. 

“The swine have such power to annoy one!” 
he burst out with a deprecating gesture and try¬ 
ing to smile—“he’s a low brute—but one must 
expect it, I suppose.no making of omel¬ 

ettes without breaking of eggs, my boy—I ought 

to be a philosopher.What book’s that, Dic- 

con? May Sinclair’s ‘Divine Fire’? Ah yes; it’s 
the only one of her novels any man would ever 
read. 

“I wish we could get rid of Coles,” Dick said 
troubled: “he lends the whole affair an atmos¬ 
phere I hate—so underhand. 

“Oh, let’s forget it.! Do you see what 

I picked up today? What do you think of that?” 

The dagger was an old one with a broad blade 
and a handle still showing gilt. On one side of 
the blade, Dick could make out the words, “Re¬ 
member the murder of Sir Edmundbury God¬ 
frey!” and on the other side the words, “Remem¬ 
ber Religion!” 

“An odd relic,” Charles Ventris said—“Do you 
recall that famous mystery of 1678? These dag¬ 
gers were made and distributed in Godfrey’s 
memory and this one with the gilt handle was 
sent, so tradition says, to the Duke of York. An 
ironical gift, as he was doubtless to blame for 
Godfrey’s death.” 






A GILT-HANDLED DAGGER 


257 


“One could deal a good blow with it,” Dick 
commented. 

“And much better than modern ways of kill¬ 
ing,” the other went on, gently discoursing, “saf¬ 
er—tidier—The modern revolver is an uncertain 
thing at best.” 

“Not always, witness the man at Shank.” 

“Oh the burglar, you mean?” 

“Are you sure he was that?” ^ 

Charles Ventris fastidiously shrugged.—“A 
very unsuccessful one evidently!” 

“They never tried to find out anything more 
about it, did they? Don’t you think the police 
dropped the enquiry remarkably soon?” 

“What else could they do? The case was 
plain,” responded M. Charles indifferently, and 
went on explaining the relic which he held in his 
hand. 

“But aren’t you curious to know who killed 
him? After all, it was somebody, who knew 
Shank—how to get in and out again. Doesn’t 
that ever worry you, sir?” 

M. Charles abstractedly shook his head. Ap¬ 
parently the question didn’t worry him. But it 
continued to run in his companion’s thoughts, as 
his next words showed. 

“I said the same thing to the gentleman we 

dined with the other evening.that one who 

was somebody at Scotland Yard and he said—” 

“Yes?” M. Charles looked up at Dick with the 
first interest he had showed. 

“—He said that often when the police appar¬ 
ently dropped an investigation, it only meant they 



258 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


were working at it from another angle in their 
own way.” 

“Quite so. He would use an official shibboleth 
whenever he could—that's just like Sir Edward. 
He can't hide the brainless ineptitude of his 

whole crew by any means.But I must be 

going on to Maggs's, about the catalogue. 

where are you off to, Diccon—?” 

“To the Museum, sir. There were a number 
of things I didn't get round to t'other day.” 

“A good idea!” M. Charles's face was lit with 
gratification, as it always was at any and every 
indication which Dick showed of “learning his 
job.” After the young man left him, he remained 
until the end of his smoke seated in his chair and 
apparently interrogating the mystery of Bellini's 
Sixth Allegory. Then he arose and went to his 
desk, where he made a series of calculations in 
pounds, shillings and pence, which faced him 
with the unsatisfactory totals which such things 
are wont to display. M. Charles wrinkled his 
white forehead.. 

Appalling—the sums of money which it took 
to live like a gentleman! Time was, when his 
salary as curator of Shank had been well-nigh 
sufficient in itself—and what was it now? One 
had to have a car—but since the War he had 
added no important items to his own collections. 
In fact, he had felt decidedly injured at being 
obliged to forego bidding for that Chinese gar¬ 
den, which was just what he needed to balance 
the one in the corner over there. Well, it was a 





A GILT-HANDLED DAGGER 


259 


time to sell rather than to buy—let the Amer¬ 
icans do the latter! 

M. Charles glanced once more down the list 
of figures made out so clearly in his decorative 
script. There were three items in particular set 
after three names, whose total equalled almost 

all the rest added together.The sight of 

them roused him to a rene.wed sense of indigna¬ 
tion and he tore the sheet into fine strips and 
threw them away. Then he wandered to the 
window and looked into the street. Yes: un¬ 
doubtedly, that was the same man lounging 
across the way, he had noticed when he came in 
an hour ago, and when he went out yesterday. . 

... .M. Charles moved away from the window, 
again with his fastidious shrug. 

Richard meanwhile, strode the pavement of 
St. James’s with all the gayety of youth, reflecting 
the gayety of London and summer. At home 
were long rows of shuttered houses, baking side¬ 
walks, white flames of chimney-smoke wavering 
in the hot breeze, leaves already crisped yellow, 
faces already wan with heat. Here, window-box¬ 
es bloomed with flowers and omnibuses with 
bright-colored frocks; couples went walking in 
the Parks and during the delightful, dilatory twi¬ 
lights the day of pleasuring seemed to draw to 
a close with smiles. 

Of course, there was another side to this of 
which Dick knew nothing as yet: there was Janu¬ 
ary as well as July. That month in his home 
meant skies of frozen turquoise and diamond sun¬ 
shine looking upon white roadways and jingling 




260 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


sleigh-bells; it meant log-fires generously piled. 
Here, it meant choking fog without, stuffy chilli¬ 
ness within—but who recalled January in July? 
Not Dick. 

Everything pleased him as he strode north¬ 
ward, even his hat. This hat had been a gift 
pressed upon him on the day when M. Charles 
heard his innocent remark that he “guessed it 
was growing hot enough for a straw!” Dick’s 
puzzled protest at the grey felt had been met 
with the answer that “one couldn’t look like a 
look like what he very nearly had been—nor 
why Sir John Flippin had ejaculated “God bless 
my soul, ’course not!” as if Dick had proposed to 

call at Buckingham Palace in his pajamas. 

Today, the grey hat was even as other hats worn 
by smiling youth like himself; he cocked it a 
little as he walked. 

M. Charles, of course, had a near and dear 
crony in the innermost recesses of the British 
Museum—who turned out to be bushy, spec¬ 
tacled, blunt and delightful. He welcomed 
Monkton of Shank with enthusiasm no less real 
because it only twinkled behind his heavy lenses 
and he opened sacred doors for Dick and showed 
him unforgettable things. Hours moved on; it 
was growing late when the Reading Room was 
reached, so an acolyte was summoned and placed 
at Dick’s disposal, while the chief functionary 
withdrew and as it chanced, just in time. 

Richard had hesitated for a moment, because 
there was so much he wanted to look at. Should 
it be the Lindisfarne Gospels or the Bedford 



A GILT-HANDLED DAGGER 261 

Hours ? or the Charters of Edgar and Henry, to 
whose golden lettering M. Charles had referred 
in terms almost lyrical? While still in this em¬ 
barrassment of choice, his eye chanced upon a 
bent head, at a desk in a corner,—a head as black 
as an India-ink initial or Caxton’s type—which 
could belong to no other person than Miss Jean 
Lang. 


CHAPTER XXII 

MOUNTING THE CENTAUR 

A FTER all, the Lindisfarne Gospels and the 

Bedford Hours could wait.Dick 

found himself in another instant standing by the 
desk and meeting Jean’s startled look by an 
outstretched hand. 

Miss Lang wore her little best dress and had 
put a wreath of bright flowers around the hat 
which she hung on her chair. Several volumes 
lay in front of her, of which two were in manu¬ 
script. The book she was reading when he spoke 
to her was entitled—a good deal to his surprise— 
“Life and Works of Constantine Simonides.” 
When she saw who it was she said “Why—er— 
how do you do?” in a manner that was a trifle 
constrained. But young Monkton never saw 
the constraint: he was openly delighted. Some¬ 
thing had been wanting to the day and now it was 
supplied. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, 
“and when did you come to London?” 

“I’m only in town for the day,” she told him, 
262 




MOUNTING THE CENTAUR 


263 


“I had something to look up..... .1 go back this 
evening.” 

She closed the book he was about to take out 
of her grasp and laid it down, keeping her hand 
still upon it; her face wore a sober expression. 

"It’s a wonderful day you know—aren’t you 
nearly finished? Surely you’ll be wanting your 
tea soon,” the young man said. “Let’s have a 
walk and get some—I’m tired of books and 

things.and you’re certain to be wanting 

your tea!” 

A little laugh danced into Jean’s eyes for a 
moment and out again. 

“So you think we’re always thinking of our 
tea? But I don’t know—” she spoke with hesi¬ 
tation but he felt that she leaned toward the idea 
and so he pressed it. 

“Really it’s too lovely a summer day to spend 
all indoors. And take pity on me—I’ve nobody 
to play with of my own age—Come along—just 
once!” 

There was no doubt that he was handsome 
and friendly and jolly. The girl felt suddenly 
that pull of youth to youth. After all—why 
not? 

The acolyte, hovering in the background, was 
disgusted to find that Sir Richard did not ask 
either for the Bedford Hours or for the Charters 
of Edgar and Henry. On the contrary, he waited 
until Miss Lang had returned her books and put 
on her hat and the two fared gaily forth together 
from the Reading Room, into the broad world. 

“Why on earth were you reading about 




264 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Constantine Simonides ?” Dick asked, as they 
walked through vast halls, where monstrous 
gods stared down at them. 

“Why do you ask?” she parried. 

“Because—why, wasn’t he the notorious forger 
of antiques?” 

“Precisely. They hardly know what he did 
forge—maybe the Codex he claimed to have 
found near Mount Sinai.” 

“I remember. But that makes me think of 
something else. Did you ever examine the olive- 
tree in the Canticles, as you said you would?” 

She answered quietly, but not in a tone of great 
interest, “Oh yes; very carefully.” 

“And it was what you thought?” 

“Very much as I thought,” she echoed and 
waited for a further questioning. But her com¬ 
panion seemed satisfied and ready, as she was, 
to think about something else. As he had said, 
it was too pleasant a day to bury oneself in dusty 
old manuscripts. He did remark, with a half 
rueful smile: 

“Well I'm glad you kept me from making an 
ass of myself before M. Charles. Dear M. Char¬ 
les, he would have laughed at me—and yet you 
know, I’ve often thought it was a remarkably 
funny thing after all.” 

She answered steadily, “Yes; it is decidedly 
odd.” 

By this time they came down the steps into the 
courtyard. Sunshine lingered there: but there 
are gayer quarters of London than Bloomsbury. 


MOUNTING THE CENTAUR 


265 


The two set their faces westward. Before be¬ 
ginning their talk— 

“I hear I’m to congratulate you, Sir Richard/’ 
Miss Lang proffered, with an air quaintly formal. 
“We only guessed—we at Shank—for a long 
time. Then the other day we heard about Mc¬ 
Neil and her testimony and so on. Lady Monk- 
ton told me it was practically settled that you 
are the heir—it’s wonderful!” 

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about any of that today!” 
he irresistibly cried and then, meeting her sur¬ 
prise—“of course, it’s wonderful if it’s true—and 
of course I’m the luckiest chap—but you know, 
Miss Lang, I can’t make up my mind whether I 
really am or not and I get sick of thinking about 
it! Then, too—ever since you spoke of that poor 
little, first Lady Monkton—the subject makes me 
wince. I can’t help it!” 

Jean was silent. 

“Of course if I had stopped to think I should 
never—” she began after a pause, but Dick broke 
in with vehemence: 

“ ’Twasn’t your fault—I was bound to hear it 
sooner or later. ’Tis common gossip, I know that 
now—But I can’t realize yet what it all means. 
Though everyone is so kind, I’m still an out- 
lander. I don’t fit in. Then—my father—how 
can I change my way of thinking about him? 
He and I were such friends!” 

These feelings had been long pent up and were 
eagerly poured out. Jean felt keenly understand¬ 
ing and sympathetic: her reserve melted, the face 


266 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


she turned toward him quivered beautifully and 
she met him with the same note. 

“I know: so was I with mine.” 

“The War came and changed everything.” 

“Didn’t it, just?.We simply couldn’t live 

on Dad’s salary and his royalties shrank to noth¬ 
ing and all Mother had was in the Antwerp 
water-works—” 

“And when did he go?” 

“In the summer of 1918. He never knew the 
victory.” 

“Mine died that fall, too—while I was still in 
France.” 

Both fell silent for a moment, but the web of 
sympathy had been strangely spun so that the 
pause* held already a quality of intimacy. 

Astonishing—had one paused to analyze it— 
how much more at ease he found himself with 
Jean than with anyone else he had met in Eng¬ 
land. No reserves, no queries; one could let one¬ 
self go, one need not translate. The Scots must 
be more like the Americans, or was it the girl 
herself?—frank, independent, straightforward, 
and liking her job. He fell to telling her 
about that past boyhood of his, pouring it all out 
with transatlantic fluency and vividness of 
speech. 

She was quick to respond, and, when he looked 
at her, there was a real interest in her face. He 
liked it, as he liked it when she said “Ay,” forget¬ 
ting her English. He felt as if he had entered in¬ 
to a warm and pleasant house to rest: nothing 



MOUNTING THE CENTAUR 


267 


stately, nothing magnificent or picturesque in 
that dwelling-place, but it reminded him of home. 

“Yes: Edinburgh was rather like that . At 
first I did war-work like everybody else, of 
course, but that worried Dad because I’d acted 
as his secretary and been fairly well-trained. So, 
when he died, I came to Shank. One must be up 
and doing, surely/’ 

“When one is your kind, one must.” 

“Ah, I ought to have been a lad—I know it— 
but do ye think I’m too boyish?” 

“I think you’re very feminine.” 

This was satisfactory indeed. 

“..The trouble is with me.I’m re¬ 
served, I think.I love all those things Mr. 

Ventris loves.but not as he loves them.” 

Hot from Jean came “Of course not as he loves 
them! My soul, M. Charles is not natural! That 
is—” she qualified hastily, “not natural for our 
day. His personality would be perfectly natural 

for the sixteenth century.That’s what he is 

with his passion for perfect things, he’s a Re¬ 
naissance person.” 

Dick looked down at her in gratitude and 
wonder at her penetration. 

“That’s it exactly! And I’m not; I’m of today, 
and sometimes I fear that he may be disap¬ 
pointed. He’s been so good to me and so has 
Lady Monkton.” 

“I wouldn’t fret,” she consoled him. “He’ll 
trust you because you’re trustworthy. I don’t 
think M. Charles has many trustworthy people 
around him. The time may come when ’twill 








268 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


mean more to him to have your affection than he 
thinks, more even than to have you at Shank.” 

“Do you think so?” he asked, a shade doubt¬ 
fully. 

“Ay, I’m sure of it. He’s tired often, is M. 
Charles. And mere things betray one some¬ 
times.” 

“It’s bully that you understand the way vou 
do!” 

Probably there were other people in Oxford 
Street—there generally were—but one had a 
curious sense of having the place to oneself. 
They walked and walked and walked, and, after 
the shortest mile and half in London, came upon 

the Park..Somewhere in that region they 

tea’d, a tea with strawberries and cake—Jean 
poured it out with her deft, long hands. By this 
time they had reached the topic of her remark¬ 
able difference from everybody else, a very im¬ 
portant topic: one that had to be settled because 
the time was growing short and there were 
others equally important yet to discuss, concern¬ 
ing their ideas regarding marriage and married 
life. 

“With us , we believe in being best friends; we 
work together—that’s what my Father and 
Mother did anyway—” 

“I’ve always heard American men were splen¬ 
did.” P 

“Women are more important than men are, we 
think. And they ought to have a life of their 
own. Look at you—you amount to more because 
you know things and work—” 



MOUNTING THE CENTAUR 


269 


“OK I don't know about that—" 

“I'm sure of it." 

His certainty was such a comfort.-..... 

“.In England they seem to consider 

everything in marriage except the companion¬ 
ship. Pomps and vanities and family and 
money. Well, I’m not going to be like that any¬ 
way." 

Miss Lang was in her way a woman of the 
world and she heard this assertion with doubt 
which must be loyally expressed. 

“You may find you can’t help it, Sir Richard, 
now mayn’t you? There’s Shank!" 

“Oh, damn Shank!" 

“Goodness gracious!" she smiled, but she did 
turn just a little pale. Monstrous heresy! And 
yet she drew courage from it for him. If he 
could damn Shank the future was not wholly 
lost. 

“But I don’t agree with you—I can’t, you see." 
Jean was brave and never braver than at this 
moment—“Those things do count: they must. 
People of the same class have similar ideas of 
duty, if nothing else. They understand the re¬ 
sponsibilities of rank and wealth. It must be 
better—they can rely more on each other: there’s 
less strain. I’ve known cases of the other kind 
that were awfully unsuccessful." 

“Maybe. But I like our way best." 

“Of course you do." 

“It’s a wonderful country. You’d simply love 
it, Miss Lang. You’re rather like an American 





270 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

girl, I think.” His tone implied the enormous 
height of this compliment, which, as Miss Jean 
Lang was a Scot and therefore prouder than 
anything on earth, would under ordinary circum¬ 
stances have been disclaimed by her with prompt 
assertion of her nationality. But for some reason 
she forgot to make it: she merely looked at her 
companion and felt flattered. 

“Perhaps,” she ventured, “after all, you will 
be marrying an American young lady?” 

“Perhaps I shall.” 

Tea could not be further prolonged without 
the danger of becoming dinner. Moreover Jean's 
train was due to start before many minutes. 
There was time only to walk down Park Lane 
and take a taxi at Hyde Park Corner and still it 
seemed as if there was a great deal left to say. 
They talked and talked: and when Monkton, his 
eyes fixed on his companion's face, cannoned into 
a green bench, his clumsiness seemed the natural 
effect of this highly important conference. 

The antics of a passing Pekinese sent both of 
them into laughter, as though it were a novel 
and original jest. And the world outside their 
path, though it rolled on as usual with trucks 
and omnibuses and motor-cars roaring by 
bearing their freight of human hope and weight 
of human disappointment, ceased for Dick and 
Jean to have any reality. 

At Stanhope Gate a hurdy-gurdy was drawn 
up, with the man industriously grinding out 
some stale ditty. 



MOUNTING THE CENTAUR 


271 


Jean Lang smiled scornfully. “Such a worn- 
out tune!” she sniffed, “Wouldn't you think 
they'd be getting something new by this time? 

I heard that during the War.such an old 

tune!” 



CHAPTER XXIII 

THE BRIDAL DRESS 

T HE windows of the Scriptorium faced east¬ 
ward upon the Triton Court, and were first 
in all the sleeping house to catch the glitter of the 
rising sun. When the long shadows ran across 
the grass, the rays closely followed, touching 
purple-brown stonework, gilding tall weather- 
vanes, and then, entering many paned windows, 
lit the far corners of its bare interior. 

Scarcely had they done so one August morn¬ 
ing, when the door quietly opened to admit the 
genius of the place, who, as quietly, closed it be¬ 
hind her. Notwithstanding the early hour, Miss 
Lang was dressed in her customary business¬ 
like working frock and apron and carried an arm¬ 
ful of books. Her manner, though by no means 
hurried, was concentrated and swift. 

Under the window ran a long trestle table on 
which had been placed a pair of oaken lecterns, 
the kind so often seen in medieval pictures. On 
each of these she deposited one of the volumes 
she carried, which were taken from the collection 
downstairs. When they were set side by side 

272 


THE BRIDAL DRESS 


273 


under the strong light, Jean took out her milli¬ 
meter rule, callipers and magnifier, and started 
to examine each volume page by page. She 
worked steadily, surely, occasionally pausing and 
returning on her own track to pass from one 
manuscript to the other, in a manner indicating 
her study to be comparative. From her absorp¬ 
tion it was evident that such work was familiar to 
her. She had no time for admiration but the 
pages, as she turned them, blossomed beneath 

her hands like little parterres of flowers__., 

The morning moved on, marked by the sundial 
hanging below the king’s cypher and above the 
gate-way. Now the Triton on the fountain 
caught the sunlight on his horn and seemed to 
blow it manfully. Still the Great House slept 

on, in secure and indolent beauty. 

When, after some hours, Jean lifted her eyes 
it was with a sigh of perplexity. Plainly, her 
work was fruitless.She sat for a few min¬ 

utes, head in hands and biting her underlip: then 
she unlocked a cupboard, took something there¬ 
from and went back to the table. What she now 
held was an old piece of soiled parchment—no 
less in truth than the identical piece of parchment 
found lying beside the dead Paul Stern in the 

crypt of Shank, more than a month ago. 

Holding this sheet in her left hand, she began to 
turn the pages of the volume lying nearest, com¬ 
paring the two with her magnifier and going 
back and forth so that she might look upon the 
surface on both the rough and the smooth side. 
Although she carried on this investigation with 






274 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


patient care, it yielded no more than the first 
had done. She rose, wandered nearer to the 
window and stood looking out. 

By and by Dolly Gapper, fresh and active in 
her print frock, came out of the Gate-house over 
which she and her father lived; and with some 
creaking and groaning, the huge doors were 
drawn back. Lady Monkton’s terrier ran snif¬ 
fing round the court until Dolly called him in. 
Silence and sunshine flooded the quadrangle. 
Then a man appeared in the gateway, looked 
about him a trifle uneasily and drew what proved 
to be a key from his pocket. With this he ad¬ 
mitted himself into the house by a small door 
leading, as Jean knew, into the passage where 
the rooms of men-servants had been in the old 
days. His disappearance left the quadrangle 
empty, as it had been before; but the secretary 
had seen who it was. With no little astonishment 
she recognized the man as a person named Coles, 
of whom she knew only that he was the nephew 
of the old woman on whose testimony the Claim¬ 
ant chiefly relied to prove his identity. One 
couldn’t mistake him; he carried his head oddly 
tilted on one side. That this man should have a 

key was sufficiently remarkable.Certainly, 

this was an unsatisfactory and a perplexing 

morning.the watcher at the window turned 

back into the room. Another and far different 
task awaited her. 

From a corner of the cupboard, Jean drew 
forth a large box, full of letters, papers and mis¬ 
cellany of all sorts sorted into bundles and at 






THE BRIDAL DRESS 


275 


these she proceeded to glance rapidly and system¬ 
atically. Some of the bundles proved to be re¬ 
ceipted bills of old date or business papers of the 
minor kind relating to the estate. Among the 
loose papers were a mass of ancient menus, pam¬ 
phlets and programmes. At the bottom of the box 
she found some faded photographs, costumed in 
the dress of the '80s and ’90s, wearing that wistful 
and apologetic expression peculiar to old photo¬ 
graphs. One of these, the largest, was a group 
of figures standing on the steps of what might be 
a church. Jean studied this with interest and with 
the first approach to a smile which her weary 
young face had worn that morning. She laid it 
aside, replaced the papers in the box and the box 
in the cupboard. By her watch, it was after eight 
when she left the Scriptorium with the volumes 
which she had taken from the Manuscript Room. 

The housemaids were finishing their work as 
Miss Lang descended to the lower storey. She 
replaced the manuscripts, locked the cases and 
restored the keys as usual to Mr. Ventris’s desk. 
Then she ascended to her own room that she 
might make herself tidy for breakfast. In the 
passage she met the Curator himself, whose 
morning greeting was courteous but a trifle more 
abstracted than usual. He was biting his lips and 
she thought he seemed annoyed. Once in her 
own room, she again examined the photograph 
she had found in the box. Would it please Sir 
Richard? she thought, then very stern with her¬ 
self, what matter if it did please Sir Richard? 

But after all, why did it hurt to be friends with 


276 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Sir Richard when it was so plain he wanted to 
be friends ? He was just a stranger, a boy of her 
own age. His manner could not have been more 
comradely, more free from any self-conscious¬ 
ness. What earthly harm could it do to talk with 
him occasionally? Certainly, Jean had made no 
overtures—she had tried to avoid him; her be¬ 
havior had been most distant, Lady Monkton 
must have approved it. Ever since his return 
to Shank they had had no more than a passing 
word. More than once, Jean had seen that he 
wanted a chat, but she had gone promptly about 
her business. 

Now, there was this photograph to show him, 
the poor lad! Were they to be keeping him like 
a monk in a cloister, and he Monkton of Shank? 
She found herself growing quite indignant, 
which made it much easier to lay a deliberate 
scheme to meet him the first chance that pre¬ 
sented itself.She owed it to him, she agreed, 

and she was tired of prudence and caution. The 
young so often are. 

All that day, going quietly about her work, she 
watched her opportunity and was quick to take 
it when it came. Her encounter with young 
Monkton in the later hours of the afternoon was 
the result of careful planning. The details and 
feverish necessity of this plan clamored in Jean’s 
ears and drowned out the smaller voices of pru¬ 
dence. 

The two met, smiling; eyes on joyful eyes. 
Dick fell into step beside the girl, elated, re¬ 
freshed, breathing a natural air. At once there 




THE BRIDAL DRESS 


277 


flowed between them that current of unfettered 
and intimate talk as between friends having a 
background in common. Talk with his hosts 
at Shank had ever an element of strain for Dick 
unless he maintained himself in the position of 
pupil. Winning as was Lady Monkton’s exotic 
charm; deep as was Dick’s respect for M. Charles 
and his store of knowledge—their outlook had 
been upon different worlds. Youth, actively pur¬ 
suing congenial work was more familiar to Rich¬ 
ard than this finished and fastidious maturity, 
which accepted life as a right. 

The long village street stretched out toward 
the fields and the August sun. These two sped 
on absorbed, far too absorbed in one another to 
see that a lounger against an opposite “pub” 
suddenly straightened up at their passing and 
looked after with a show of interest that deep¬ 
ened into a grin. This man was Hays, the butler, 
a person who knew that he had every reason 
to fear and to dislike the observant Miss Lang. 
He gazed for a moment after the disappearing 
pair and then walked rapidly back toward the 
gates of the Great House. His manner was pur¬ 
poseful. 

Crossing a thread of brook by a stone bridge, 
the street became a high road and wandered be¬ 
tween hedges into the pleasant countryside. 
From this bridge the view of Shank was famous. 
Ruskin had sketched it; Constable had painted 
it; Turner had clothed it in the shimmering tis¬ 
sues of sunset. Here instinctively, one paused 
to look upon that mass of buildings dominating 


278 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

its hill-side and lifting a crenellated and towered 
roof-line against the pale sky. 

“Look at it!” Dick cried, awe-stricken, “it 

looms over everything.today it’s stately 

and smiling..... .tomorrow it may be terrible 

like a prison.Always, it is the only thing 

one is able to see.” 

“Are you finding it any easier to believe,” 
asked his companion quietly, “that it is your 
heritage?” Her voice held a strange note and 
he looked anxiously at her non-committal face. 

“No: I can’t say that. Perhaps I’m more used 
to it. I’ve heard McNeil tell her story more than 
once and certainly the evidence seems very 
strong.” 

“By the way,” Miss Lang said, “I chanced on 
something which may interest you. Here it is,” 
and she held the picture toward him. “It’s Sir 
Piers’ wedding-party—can you see?” 

The group was still fairly clear and showed a 
number of persons standing on the steps of a 
church. In the centre was the tall figure of Sir 
Piers Monkton; behind him his slighter friend 
the Curator. By his side, stood a smiling slender 
young girl, wearing a furbelowed cloak and a hat 
with a sweeping plume. There was a clergyman; 
an elderly lady in a bustle, and other figures 
around them. On the back was written, “Wed¬ 
ding of Sir Piers Monkton and Miss Lucy Vig- 
noles, June 1895.” 

“That must be Mr. Ventris as the best man,” 
Jean pointed out, “How young he looks! But 
what’s the matter?” 





THE BRIDAL DRESS 


279 


Richard did not seem to hear: he was holding 
the picture between his hands, studying it with 
a frown. 

“Matter?” he repeated abstractedly, “that’s it 
—what’s the matter?” 

“I don’t understand—what puzzles you?” 

“Everything puzzles me!” he waved her to a 
seat beside him on the stone parapet, “Look, Miss 
Lang. That’s she—my—my mother—isn’t it? 
standing beside Sir Piers? You see how she’s 
dressed? Well, when McNeil described the wed¬ 
ding, she spoke about the bride in her white 
dress and veil, T put her long veil over her my¬ 
self,” said she, The poor young thing!’ ” 

“Then this was taken afterwards,” Jean 
promptly assured him—“she changed into her 
going-away frock.” 

He pointed to the door in the background. 

“That’s the church where they were married 

all right. I’ve been there with M. Charles 

in the car. It’s three miles or more from the 
house. She was married from her aunt’s place, 
Fallowleas: she wouldn’t change her dress at the 
church, you know.” 

“Probably they all went back there to have the 
picture taken,” said Jean, though she did not be¬ 
lieve it, “or else McNeil has forgotten.” 

He clapped his hands with emphasis upon the 
parapet. “That’s it—McNeil can't have forgot¬ 
ten a thing like that.it’s not the sort of 

thing one forgets. You know yourself you could 

never forget how the bride was dressed. 

And she remembered absolutely everything— 






280 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


details as clear as you please. She kept repeat¬ 
ing, Tt was me put the veil over her face—the 
poor young lady!’ ” 

“But Mr. Ventris would know if she were 
wrong,” Jean argued, “what did he say?” 

“Nothing—to that.No, as I recall, I don’t 

think he was in the room the first time I heard 
McNeil tell about the wedding. But he picked 
her up sharply on one or two points..” 

“Men don’t recall such things—not as women 
do. He may not have thought—” 

“All the same—it worries me—it makes me 

doubtful again.if we had only a witness 

other than this pair! Somehow I—” He choked 
on his perplexity and his sentence ended in a 
shake of the head. She longed to help him. 

“Listen, Sir Richard.I have a suggestion 

.” Jean spoke in that comradely way and 

Dick rested his own miserable eyes upon the 
clear frankness of her’s: “I never told you, but 
my old nurse in Scotland was once in service 

at Shank.It ended badly for her: some 

quarrel and she had to leave.she never talks 

about it if she can help. But I’m sure she’d do 
anything for me—she’s devoted to me. Of course 
she was not at the wedding—I know it wasn’t 
until after the wedding that she came to Shank. 

But she heard it talked about no doubt. 

details of dress are just the sort of thing which 
stick in servant’s minds. Suppose I write and 
ask her?” 

His face lightened. “Why, she may have 
known this Mary McNeil.why couldn’t 










THE BRIDAL DRESS 


281 


they meet and—?” But Jean shook her head, 
"She’s been ill, poor Biddy—she’s not been 

strong either.and knowing how she felt 

about Shank, I wouldn’t want to betray her con¬ 
fidence. I thought of her at once, Sir Richard.. 

.but there is no need for her to identify 

McNeil, remember — Lady Monkton and Mr. 
Ventris have done that.” 

He nodded, seeing the force of her remark but 
still dissatisfied. 

"Her memory will give us the facts from an¬ 
other angle and that may be of use. I’ll write 
anyway, this evening.” 

He thanked her, intensely. "You’re splen¬ 
did—you’re a real friend.you are the only 

person who seems to understand how I feel. 

You see, it’s such an incredible business and M. 
Charles is so utterly sure. He won’t hear of any 

doubts.he believes McNeil, the letter and 

everything in a way that I can’t seem to, myself. 
I don’t know why.” his voice ran on shak¬ 

ily, "if it wasn’t for you, I don’t know how I 
could even bear the suspense—” 

They were standing against the bridge, above 
the green meadow and small stream, facing the 
slope which rose to where all the windows of 
Shank glittered and shone. The warm intimacy 
of Dick’s tone embarrassed Jean: she could only 
say stiffly: 

"Oh, it’s just trifling—nothing at all.” 

"It’s just everything —to me,” said the young 
man, and in the shock of a conviction their eyes 
met. Troubled was this glance on both sides; 







282 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


through the girl’s parted lips the breath came 
stormily. What she saw in the young face bent 
above her was all that she had dreaded and 
longed to see; what she showed to him in her 
passionate eyes was all she had dreaded and 
longed to show. The Great House which tow¬ 
ered over against them seemed to sink like an 
exhalation, its malign glory was lost in the little, 
homely vision which shone before them both. 

Almost without knowing it, hand touched 
hand, and that link lasted for an eternal moment 
of anguish, bewilderment, and joy. But it was 
like Jean that she broke away from it; that she 
turned and ran, ran from the bridge. 

She heard her name called after her, but she did 
not look back. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

THE MARY CASKET 

T HE Scots are proud as well as romantic; 

Jean was both. She knew what such a 
glance meant, she knew moreover what it did 
not mean. No girl of her type could have gone 
about the world of after-War license without 
encountering facile passions, quickly inflamed 
and dying out as quickly. Jean had all the dread 
and distrust of them which comes from having 
lived in a home where trifling with the issues of 
life was held impossible, where emotion was deep 
and enduring. 

Her childhood had not been unlike Dick’s, for 
there had been the same retirement and sim¬ 
plicity, the same background of books. Years 
had been spent passing from the shadows of 
Edinbro’ to the sunshine of Italy. Her father 
loved both countries, the place where he collected 
material and that wherein he welded it into me¬ 
morable forms. His books, particularly his 
“Scotland in the Renaissance” had been read by 
many people for color and grace as well as for 
learning. His companionship had trained 
283 


284 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Jean’s mind and stimulated her imagination ever 
since she could remember, thus deepening the 
hold Shank had on her. Her parents’ marriage 
had been entirely planted in love and congeni¬ 
ality of taste; she had grown up in happiness, 
recalling no sorrow, except, perhaps, the picture 
of a little brother with big eyes, who had died 
a long while ago. With such an inheritance, 
under such fostering, Jean was not inclined to 
look upon such things trivially. With a twisted 
smile, she shook her young head, recalling her 
father’s word: “When your moment strikes, 
child, it’s like to go hard with you!” 

Yes: it was like to go hard indeed. 

Jean had not lived for two months under the 
same roof as Richard Monkton without seeing 
that such ideals were in his background also and 
sprung from the same soil as her own. This was 
not an idle flirtation; she could have therefore 
not even the consolation of indignation. Deeply 
she felt that this was a serious matter. From the 
first, Dick had been more at ease in her company. 
The circumstance should have warned her, yet 

it had not done so. 

And now? There seemed no question as to 
her responsibility, none at all. All day she car¬ 
ried her trouble about with her, from the Scrip¬ 
torium to the Oak Parlor, from the Great Hall to 
the Rubens Gallery; for she had much to show 
Mr. Ventris. All day she tried to shut out that 
long, long look of anguish and joy, while she hur¬ 
ried on many tasks, took dictation, made lists, 
wrote directions, sent telephone messages. 




THE MARY CASKET 


285 


Sometimes she underwent a wave of bitterness. 
Was it thus that life’s great miracle was to come 
to her? only in this ugly mask, behind which 
she must not look? Once she caught herself 
staring at her employer with incredulity and 
wonder. She had not hesitated, it seemed (was 
rumor true), to go where her heart dictated, even 
though she trod on a cruel pathway! How could 
she? And all the while Jean knew that the wo¬ 
man with the narrow eyes, and lip lifted in a 
strange smile, would not be tender to her secre¬ 
tary because of her own past. In that house, 
Jean knew she could count on little but ruthless¬ 
ness. If her employers merely dreamed of what 
had passed—then her faithful work of these last 
three years would stand for nothing. 

Meanwhile, she loved Richard: she loved 

Monkton of Shank.He was sensitive, kind, 

intelligent, trustworthy—she was proud of him; 

she was proud of loving him.she was proud 

with a deep-seated and sustaining pride that the 
man she loved must seek her as her father’s 
daughter should be sought. This pride meant 
instant withdrawal from the position she now 
held. The more she realized her feeling, the 
stronger became that determination. Monkton 
of Shank might seek Jean Lang if he would: Jean 
Lang was not going to seek Monkton of Shank. 
And yet how was this to be accomplished? 

All that hot day, while the deer huddled to¬ 
gether in the shade, and heavy scents from the 
garden came with the murmur of bees, Jean went 
to and fro with her painful problem. Of Richard 




286 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


she was steadfastly careful to see nothing, al¬ 
though her heart went out to him, when he 
passed her, tall and white-faced, with eyes bear¬ 
ing the same clouds and lightnings as her own 
eyes. Once he climbed up to the door of the 
Scriptorium and knocked, hesitating—and Jean 
heard him, quivering with joy. But she had 
locked the door, and was careful to make no 
sound; after a time his steps went away dejected 
and when Jean raised her head again, her cheeks 
were wet. 

During her leisure hour before tea, she wrote 
a letter. 

“Oh Mother darling:” (so Jean wrote) “Yes— 
I’m a wicked child that I have let slip a whole 

fortnight.No: Fm not sick; yes, I’m all 

right—no, I’ve not forgotten! Things have been 
mixed and work heavy and that is all. No, I’ve 
not as yet any prospect of a holiday; but I shall 
ask for one when I see the opportunity and you 
shall see Jeanie almost before you know it. Yes: 
my heart is sair, darling, for home and you. 

“I rejoice that Biddy at last is on the turn; 

you must have had an anxious time.And by 

the way, does she still hate to talk of Shank? 
Because you must find out something from her 
if you can—yes, even if she hates it—and tell 
her it’s for my sake, for Jeanie’s sake. I’m sure 
she can’t refuse you! I want you, darling, to get 
from her all she knows, or remembers, about Sir 
Piers and his first wife and their wedding. I 
know she came to Shank after that time; but 
servants will be telling about weddings and she 






THE MARY CASKET 


287 


must have heard a lot of chat and gossip here 
and there. All that has grown very important, 
(how and why I will explain later,) and if I 
don’t find out from Biddy what she knows, some 

harsher body may.Particularly, Mother, 

ask her if she heard how the bride was dressed , 
what sort of gown and veil she had; who at¬ 
tended her; if she had a maid named McNeil and 
what she was like—all you can! I can’t tell you 

how important it all is.Pat Sir Gibbie on 

his nice collie head—and oh! is my lavender bed 
still blooming? 

‘‘Your Jean.” 

The letter somehow comforted her and gave 
her poise for the conversation with Lady Monk- 
ton, which took place the next morning in a man¬ 
ner characteristic of both. 

The secretary’s approach was direct, quiet and 
regretful. She had been considering her resig¬ 
nation for some time past, she said. Her mother 
had had an unusual load of care from illness and 
ought not to be left so much alone. Jean should 
not be at such a distance—it was hardly right. 
Moreover, changes were impending at Shank, 
and therefore the moment was propitious. Of 
course Lady Monkton knew that she might count 
on Jean’s help in training a successor. 

The elder woman heard her out with eyes cast 
down. She showed none of the vexation which 
might have been expected. Jean well knew that 
it would not be easy to find anyone to do what 
she had done with such enthusiasm, for the same 





288 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


poor pay. It was the place and the work, not the 
money, which had repaid Miss Lang. 

When Jean made an end, the other did ask 
with a little curiosity: “But you—what are you 
going to do? Have you any plans? Or perhaps 
it is no longer necessary—?” 

And Jean was ready with an answer: “I can 
get work in Edinbro'—nearer home, my lady. 
Friends of my father have offered it to me before 
now, you see, only I loved Shank.” 

“Ah, I recall that your father was a distin¬ 
guished scholar—” Lady Monkton observed, 
turning in her long chair and drawing her scarf 
about her. She asked nothing more and the 
interview terminated. 

Some time later Denise went down to the ter¬ 
race and soon M. Charles joined her there. They 
strolled about the garden paths together, these 
two tall figures, in earnest conversation. Lady 
Monkton's white hair under a white veil, the 
straight nun-like folds of her dress gave her yet 

more strikingly that Mary Stuart look.la 

Veuve Blanche. 

Always, M. Charles bent his fine head toward 
her, absorbed in her. Sir Richard, seeing them 
pass thus afar off was conscious of an indignant 
and puzzled compassion: “Hell!” was his dis¬ 
gusted comment to himself, “Why don't they 
get married?” and he recalled Sir John Flippin's 
phrase, “un liaison sacre.” Surely, in Dick's 
opinion, this was a perverted world!. 

Meanwhile, Jean was glad that the affair 
was settled although her heart was heavy. Per- 




THE MARY CASKET 


289 


haps it was the sultry weather that made her so 
restless, and by evening this feeling had grown 
too poignant for any chance of sleep. She be¬ 
thought her of her box, which as there was no 
suitable place in her bed-room for it, had been 
stored away in an empty chamber at the end of 
the corridor. To go over her clothes and sort 
her belongings was a mechanical task which 
might quiet her nerves. She rose from bed; 
slipped on her dressing-gown and took her keys 
and a candle. 

The night was airless, so that even in the long 
passage the flame did not waver. It was after 
eleven o’clock, and the whole great building 
seemed perfectly still. From without, the gentle 
patter of water-drops from the fountain came to 
her ears as she pushed open the door of the box- 
room. 

There were quite a number of winter clothes 
in the trunk which Jean had stored away during 
the warm weather.Some of them needed at¬ 

tention so, she laid them aside. Then she decided 
that she might want erelong a certain knitted 
sweater, but this she did not find where she re¬ 
membered placing it. She lifted out the tray 
and on her knees, plunged into the bottom of the 
trunk. There her fingers encountered the famil¬ 
iar knitted garment before her eyes saw it. She 
tried to pull it out, but it resisted. Apparently it 

was wrapped about a heavy object.As she 

lifted this object out of the trunk and unwrapped 
it, Jean told herself it was odd that she should 





290 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


have used it in this way, yet have no trace of re¬ 
collection that she had done so. . 

Then she saw.. .She knelt there holding what 
she had found and with every particle of color 
stricken from her face. One glance had been 

enough to tell her what it was. 

What she held in her shaking hands was a gold 
casket about a foot long and eight or nine inches 
high. It was carved all over in high relief in 
the wildest luxuriance of decorative fancy with 
garlands and grotesques, inlaid on the sides with 
plaques of brilliant enamel and heavily set with 
diamonds. Not only was its value that of prec¬ 
ious materials and elaborate works of art but 
its historical association had made it one of the 
most famous treasures of Shank. It was, in fact, 
none other than the Mary Casket, which as Jean 
knew very well, should have been at that moment 
reposing on its velvet bed in its especial vitrine of 
the State Drawing-Room under lock and key. 

The Mary Casket had been originally given to 
Anne Boleyn as a wedding-present, by an Italian 
prince who had ordered it from a young gold¬ 
smith named Benvenuto Cellini. Not four years 
later, that poor lady placed within it a last desper¬ 
ate appeal for mercy and sent them both to the 
king her husband. Henry, while disregarding 
the appeal, had carefully retained the valuable 
casket and in time his daughter Mary selected it 
in her turn as a wedding-gift to the young Queen 
of Scotland when she married the Dauphin of 
France. By a strange whim of Destiny, Mary 
Queen of Scots had used this same casket thirty 




THE MARY CASKET 


291 


years later, to convey her own plea for life to 
Elizabeth, and Elizabeth, whether consciously 
or unconsciously, had followed her father's ex¬ 
ample. Tragedy encrusts the jewels of the Re¬ 
naissance and such works of Cellini as remain 
to us are crystallized in blood and violence. The 
article which Jean discovered in her trunk had 
gone to placate two English sovereigns, had held 
two dreadful pleas for life, and was probably the 
most widely known of all the possessions of the 
Shank collection. The subject of a special illus¬ 
trated monograph, it was the thing which tour¬ 
ists most eagerly asked to see. Lately, offers to 
buy it, at almost any price, had been coming in 
from all quarters of the globe. Jean remembered, 
with a sort of nauseating clarity, that she herself 
had personally received a fabulous offer from 
New York, with a thoughtful postscript suggest¬ 
ing that her own commission for negotiating the 
sale “on the quiet", would amount to a handsome 
sum. She had shown the letter at once to Lady 
Monkton and then indignantly put it in the 
fire. 

And this —this was in her trunk! 

There was a pure, ingenious devilishness about 
the thing which turned the girl shaky and sick. 
The offer of two months ago had been made pri¬ 
vately to her. She alone of all the household had 
access to the Mary Casket. She had that day 

somewhat abruptly resigned her position. 

What deadly enemy sought to destroy her, and 
was it too late to save herself? 

After a while, her sickness passed. She wiped 




292 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


the sweat from her brow and hands. She began 

to think.She must creep noiselessly down 

to the drawing-room and at once replace the hor¬ 
rible thing.but after that? The possibili¬ 

ties of an enmity so deep and resourceful strik¬ 
ing at her out of the dark—these were infinite. 
How combat—how prepare against them? There 
seemed no way. 

She replaced the clothes in her trunk, locked it 
and silently returned to her own room. There, 
as Jean pushed open the door, her mind darting 
hither and yon in its search for aid, she suddenly 
remembered something—the Princess’s Nut. In 
her writing-case was Mrs. Byrd’s unopened 
letter. 




CHAPTER XXV 

THE CHARRED PIECES 

T HE news next morning came first to old 
Laking the housekeeper in her room and 
upset her a good deal. One of the under-house¬ 
maids was the bearer, running along the pas¬ 
sages with her crisp dress crackling, her young 
face all excited and dismayed. She met no one 
in the passages, so she assured the housekeeper, 
who sternly admonished her to silence until an 
hour later when Lady Monkton could be in¬ 
formed. The girl promised, and yet the news 
spread: ten minutes later Hays was grinning over 
it in the pantry and Dolly Gapper was telling it 
in the guard-house, whence Thomas carried it to 
the gardeners! By the time old Laking, 
trembling a good deal, was tapping at her mis¬ 
tress's door, everybody at Shank except the mis¬ 
tress knew that Miss Lang had disappeared in 
the night. 

Richard, who still regarded himself and was 
regarded, as the guest rather than the master of 
Shank, heard of it last of all and with sensations 
hard to define. Bewilderment and anxiety were 
293 


294 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


mingled in his mind, with a new sense of personal 
responsibility which at the moment his chief de* 
sire was to conceal. He had seen enough of his 
hosts to know that they would be on the alert for 
any undue interest on his part, so his manner 
when he joined them in Lady Monkton’s morn¬ 
ing-room was at first exactly as they would have 
had it. Beneath that manner Richard found 
himself watching closely all that passed. 

He entered to find the two in conversation as 
he so often saw them. Lady Monkton lay ex¬ 
tended in her long chair. Mr. Ventris stood with 
his cigarette before the fireplace as his way was 
after breakfast, listening in silence to her anxious 
communication and with his meditative eyelids 
drooping over his observant eyes. 

“Her bed has not been slept in,” Lady Monk- 
ton was saying, “such behavior is unheard-of— 
where can the girl be?” She turned to Dick as 
he entered. “You have heard what has hap¬ 
pened, Richard, can you throw any light on it?” 

Conscious that both of them were watching 
him, Dick’s quick wits controlled his feelings. 
His host’s shake of the head followed the remark 
that —“maybe she’ll ring you up a little later and 
explain.” 

Lady Monkton thought it unlikely. “The 
whole thing is impossible—even as things are 
today. And we thought Miss Lang so loyal!” 

“We were evidently mistaken,” came in the 
cold music of M. Charles’s voice. Dick felt his 
own temper rise. 

“You’ll have to show something more than this 


THE CHARRED PIECES 295 

to convince most people,” was all he thought pru¬ 
dent to say. 

“Diccon, of course, doesn’t know—” said M. 
Charles; “tell him, Denise.” 

Lady Monkton shifted her position uneasily, 
“Miss Lang came to me yesterday and resigned 
her post,” she narrated, “giving some vague ex¬ 
cuse about her mother’s health—quite insuffi¬ 
cient, I thought. Her manner, too, was peculiar. 
I felt her to be extremely inconsiderate to give 
up her work—she knows how hard it will be to 
get the right person—” 

“But of course something was at the bottom of 
it all,” added M. Charles. 

“Aren’t you a little hasty?” Dick coolly sug¬ 
gested, still managing to appear as if consider¬ 
ing a problem to which he was quite indifferent; 
“She may have had a sudden summons. You may 
hear from her at any moment now.” 

“Of course—of course,” M. Charles blandly 
agreed, with a glance at the lady of the house— 
“still, Diccon, we have made enquiries and no 
message came for Miss Lang last night....” 

“Just the same,” young Monkton argued, 
“the explanation may be simple enough. For 
instance, Miss Lang may have been really wor¬ 
ried about her mother—and so rung her up on 
the long distance ’phone and then—” 

They stared at him. 

“My dear boy—ring up Scotland on the tele¬ 
phone—why, it would take all night even if—” 

“But how do we know—?” 

“How do we know we are not in the States?” 


296 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


asked M. Charles scornfully, and Dick was 
silenced, once more conscious of exerting self- 
control. With that odd sense of the stage, which 
the others’ company so often brought to mind, 
he took out a cigarette from his new case with 
the Monkton arms on it and lit it in a mildly 
protesting sort of way. “All I mean is—that we 
ought to give Miss Lang the benefit of the doubt. 
She may be doing a job of some kind. Why do 
you at once take for granted that something is 
wrong?” 

“Because nothing else in the world would 
cause the girl to leave Shank in this stealthy and 
unbecoming manner, without notifying someone 
in the house,” was the reply. 

“Perhaps she’s fallen somewhere about and 
hurt herself—” 

“That I thought of naturally first of all, Dic- 
con,—but you see, the maid reports that Miss 
Lang’s coat and hat are missing.” 

A tinge of fear crept over Richard and he said 
nothing for a moment. 

“I see—it’s all extraordinary,” reluctantly 
came from him—“but look here, sir, how did she 
leave and where? If the gates were shut how 
could she even get out of Shank? That’s the 
thing that alarms me.” 

“And me too, Richard,—but of course, in so 
vast a building there must be windows—ways— 
You and I will investigate immediately.” 

“If you like,” the young man assented, express¬ 
ing his distaste, however, very plainly—“but all 
the same, I can’t help disbelieving it. I think 


THE CHARRED PIECES 


297 


you’ll find the whole matter capable of some 
simple explanation.” 

“I wish I could think so.” 

Richard turned to Lady Monkton. “Aren’t 
you all very suspicious in this country?” he 
pleaded. “We’d wait awhile in the States before 
thinking this meant anything wrong!” 

“My dear Diccon—you haven’t got Shank in 
the States,” Charles Ventris said with a certain 
impatient warmth, “can’t I get you to realize 
what a treasure-house the place is? Here’s this 
vast building filled with valuable objects of art 
and incapable of being guarded except by the 
loyalty of our employees. Every day brings of¬ 
fers of many of the things in it—a bombard¬ 
ment of temptation on every human being in the 
place!” 

“I’d be far more inclined, then, to suspect a 
fellow like Hays, than Miss Lang,” Dick said— 
and repented of his fire the next second. Charles 
Ventris made a little noise in his throat. 

“There are different ways of assuring oneself 
of a person’s fidelity,” he said. “Fear is as good 
as fealty in some cases,” and then hastily—for he 
too repented of his words the moment after, 
“but of course I’m not making any rash charges 
at the moment—” 

He paused, while Lady Monkton’s troubled 
voice murmured, “Oh no, Charles, of course not!” 
and then continued, looking squarely at the 
younger man, “We’ll give Miss Lang until lunch 
time to show up or explain herself. I don’t want 
a hue and cry above all things. But if no word 


298 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


comes by that time, then you and I will have to 
make a thorough search of the premises. I my¬ 
self am going to the drawing-room now. 

Do you remember, Denise, an enormous offer to 
buy the Mary Casket which came privately to 
Miss Lang some time ago?” 

“Yes—but she brought it to me at once—she 
was furious.” 

“She seemed so, of course, but was she? We 
shall see.” 

Dick wisely said no more as they left the 
boudoir and proceeded to the State Drawing¬ 
room. He felt, and rightly, that the facts them¬ 
selves would be far more convincing than any 
protests of his. To connect Jean Lang with any¬ 
thing like dishonesty seemed to him simply dis¬ 
torted and preposterous, the result of living in 
the atmosphere wherein Charles Ventris lived, 
to whom these things were a passion. He was 
careful to express no exultation when the panes 
of the vitrine showed their precious contents in¬ 
tact. The Mary Casket gleamed gloriously on 
its velvet bed, between the other two Cellini 
jewels of the group. The Medusa head of bluish 
agate stared with brows twisted in pain at the 
Centaur-pendant, from whose feet dangled great 
pearls, and whose tiny, bearded face wore a 
wicked smile. 

Of course Dick felt no surprise to see them in 
their place, what pained him was that his com¬ 
panion should.the taint of suspicion must 

have gone deep, because M. Charles's perplexity 
was marked. 





THE CHARRED PIECES 


299 


“It's very remarkable,” was all he ventured, as 
he locked the doors and came away. 

“You’ll find I’m right—it’s all a tempest in a 
teapot,” Dick spoke confidently; “We shall hear 
something soon, no doubt.” But M. Charles’s 
face remained in a cloud of unwonted gravity. 

“I’m sure I hope so,” was all he murmured; 
then seeming disinclined for a talk, he went into 
the Oak Parlor and shut the door. 

But hour followed hour and no news came. 
Mr. Ventris was still evidently fixed in his sus¬ 
picions and Dick found himself mounting the 
garlanded staircase to the secretary’s room, with 
the utmost reluctance and distaste for the task 
ahead of them. The elder man’s grave face and 
weighty manner showed how serious he consid¬ 
ered it, but Dick was the one to be pitied. Pain 
must in truth be the portion of any youth forced 
to enter upon such an enquiry, not thirty-six 
hours after he had discovered the true meaning 
of his own feelings.He was torn be¬ 
tween anxiety and bewilderment.. 

Mr. Ventris’s investigation was thorough. 
Obeying his order, the room had not been 
touched and thus, when the door opened, it ap¬ 
peared unchanged from the tranquil order of the 
night before. The bed was turned down but had 
not been slept in. On a chair lay the night-dress 
and slippers which Jean had worn the evening 
before. A serge coat and short skirt with a small 
hat were absent from the cupboard. In the desk- 
drawers lay her cheque-book and an account book 
showing no unusual entries of money expended 





300 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


or received. Nothing could be more transparent 
than these figures, although M. Charles was not 
slow to point out that only a fool makes entries 
of illegitimate gains in an account-book. On the 
dressing-table lay Jean’s shabby little purse— 
there was but a shilling or two in it. 

“Of course, there was probably an accomplice 
outside,” was M. Charles’s comment; and to this 
observation, Richard, whose disgust mastered 
him, made no answer. The elder man had been 
bending over the fire-place looking at some ashes 
lying therein—a puff of black flakes which ap¬ 
peared to his eye reasonably fresh. As he 
straightened up again, the mirror over the man¬ 
tel showed him the full misery of his companion’s 
indignant face and he therefore checked the 
words which he was about to add. 

When Dick abruptly left him at the door of 
the small anteroom where Miss Lang stored her 
boxes, he manifested no surprise. The young 
man had been wholly unable to conceal his dis¬ 
turbance as unfriendly hands probed into Jean’s 
poor, little, neat possessions. 

Later on, M. Charles descended alone to find 
Sir Richard apparently deep in a book. 

“The affair remains perfectly inexplicable,” 
was all M. Charles vouchsafed; and Dick merely 
raised his peaked eye-brows but did not lift his 
sulky eyes from the page. 

To the younger man, the affair was a revelation 
of anger and disappointment. The attitude of 
Jean’s employers, so ready with suspicion, was 
incomprehensible to one of his temperament and 




THE CHARRED PIECES 


301 


brought freshly forth in him that latent antag¬ 
onism to their point of view. Certain aspects of 
M. Charles’s personality were thrown into a dis¬ 
turbing and disagreeable relief. As Dick sat in his 
corner mechanically turning pages without even 
seeing the text, he could hear their discussion in 
Lady Monkton’s light lisp, in M. Charles’s cool, 
sophisticated phrases, and realized with rebel¬ 
lious stupefaction that what they questioned was 
Jean’s honesty. Jean’s honesty! Jean’s loyalty! 
Why, she bore them as banners before her; in 
every glance of her wide, grey eyes, in every curl 
of her lip. 

“These possessions must carry an influence— 
a taint...” was his reflection, “Mr. Ventris has 
been warped by them—his ideas wholly distorted 
—that must be the explanation.” 

Dick was still under this cloud—tactfully ig¬ 
nored by his hosts—when he went to his room 
that night. He had hardly shut his door before 
there came a timid knock. The intruder, to 
Dick’s surprise, was Annie, the under-housemaid, 
who had first discovered the disappearance of 
Miss Lang; and she came with confusion and 
alarm to confide in him something which she 
thought he ought to know. The orders to leave 
the room exactly as found had reached her a 
few minutes late; just, as Annie confessed, she 
had picked up a letter lying on the floor and set 
it alight in the fireplace. Word came that no¬ 
thing was to be touched: the girl was fright¬ 
ened and crushed out the tiny flame—then, 
afraid the piece would betray her, thrust it into 



302 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


her pocket. Never had it dawned upon the stupid 
Annie that her act would be attributed to the 
owner of the room; and that she might by this 
act have destroyed some clue to Jean’s disap¬ 
pearance. 

“—And I ’ope you’ll forgive it, Sir Richard, 
seeing as I never thought—and Mrs. Laking— 
she’d be that ’ard on me if she knew—’’the round- 
faced Annie concluded with a sob, holding out 
to him the charred fragments of paper, and end¬ 
ing with something about—“and they do say as 
you’re the ’ead of the family now, Sir Richard—” 
to which Dick tried not to listen. This was a 
day when his heritage never seemed less desir¬ 
able. 

When Annie had departed, her apron to her 
eyes, he sat down to consider the scraps of paper 
she had given him. There was part of a half¬ 
sheet and the fragment of another, browned into 
illegibility. A few words upon what was evi¬ 
dently the first page of a letter, remained clear 
enough to show him that the writing was not 
Jean’s. What he could read was part of two 
sentences. 

“The way out is up not down the stair.murderer got 

in. If anything.and I much fear it may.” 

Try as he might, he could gain no more from 
the charred pieces and soon turned aside from 
them to pace the room and consider what next 
to do. “The way out is up not down the “stair—” 
Which stair? There were over thirty in Shank 
and probably more. Yet as he thought, memory 




THE CHARRED PIECES 


303 


formed a picture in his mind—a clear scene 
where one man shuddered behind a huge smiling 
Bacchante to watch another, torch in hand, 
quickly turning, step by step, the dark twist of a 
turret stair. The Archbishop’s corkscrew in the 
Rubens Gallery must be meant; there could be 
no other. The question was should he go alone? 
There was no doubt that the events of the day 
had their effect on Dick’s mind. M. Charles’s 
ready suspicion roused disgust and resentment; 
loyalty to M. Charles seemed thus less important 
than loyalty to Jean. Dick had begun to doubt 
and wished his doubts resolved: he would follow 
Jean’s trail alone. This letter had led her some¬ 
where—he must discover where; why she had 
gone and what had befallen her. He owed to 
himself and to her to get to the bottom of this 
affair and find out the source of what he had been 
feeling all along to be an active and definite 
enmity. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE WAY OUT 

G REY dawn found Dick entering the Rubens 
Gallery. The keys to it had presented no 
difficulty: he knew in which drawer of Mr. Ven- 
tris’s desk they were kept; and that little, new one 
was the key which had locked up once more the 
Archbishop’s staircase after his own adventure 
there. He also knew the spring that moved the 
big cartoon from the wall, as he and Lady Monk- 
ton had examined it together. Dick carried his 
electric torch (though he didn’t expect to use it) 
and wore rubber-soled shoes and a dark grey 
suit. He felt like a burglar and a knight errant 
in one. 

It was not without a thrill that he started to 
mount up and up, on the stair where he had once 
gone down and down. As he did so, he reflected 
over the fact that he might have done this 
before; it was odd he hadn’t, when one 
remembered that the second of the two strangers 
he had seen during his adventure had come from 
above. But no one had suggested climbing up 
and he himself had forgotten or omitted to do 

304 


THE WAY OUT 


305 


so. Now he would see.More than once, the 

sense of someone’s presence which the place 
roused in him made him pause—wait—listen for 
foot-falls. But all was silent. 

Outside, the dawn was brightening- into day. 
When Dick reached the top of the corkscrew 
flight, he stood in a narrow passage-way, open¬ 
ing at a sharp angle into a longer passage-way 
having occasional windows high up in the wall. 
Through these slits he could see that the sky 

was already blue.It must be just under the 

eaves.On one side of him were doors, some 

open, some closed, but all givingaccess to a series 
of bare and vacant rooms, those which no doubt 
had once housed the Archbishop’s retinue. Here, 
stone walls were bare and cold, while occasional 
windows gave upon a succession of roofs and 
gables with tall chimneys rising out of them.... 

The corridor came to an end. So far, Dick 
was puzzled. Nothing could be less communica¬ 
tive than these vacant spaces, opening the one 

out of the other.He looked about him. To 

the left, the room held only a huge, hooded fire¬ 
place of rough stone, at the side of which a cup¬ 
board door stood ajar. Hastening across the 
floor, he saw that it revealed no cupboard but a 
flight of stairs, hidden behind the chimney. He 

mounted again to find himself upon the roof. 

The Archbishop’s Palace was now behind him, he 
stood upon the main wing, dominated by chim¬ 
neys and parapets. He was more puzzled than 
ever. One couldn’t stay long on the roof for 
fear of being seen from the Park, but before 







306 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


returning the way he had come, he must explore 
still further. There was certainly no clue here to 
the disappearance of Jean. 

The roof, which looked so broad from below, 
was in reality much encumbered with decorative 
stone-work and chimney-stacks. Dick turned the 
corner of one of these and then saw... Facing 
him and under a projecting gable was an open 
window. He went over and looked in, then 
throwing a leg over the sill, he found himself in 
a small room. More like a cell than a room, this 
place was unfurnished but for a table and chair. 
So far as he could make out, it had evidently been 
used as a sort of junk shop, a store-house from 
the libraries below stairs. Stacked in the cor¬ 
ners and piled upon the floor were old bindings, 
decayed leather, rusty iron clasps, covers lacking 
contents and pages lacking covers; bits of old 
missals and chorals, fragments of sheepskin and 
parchment. True, there was a rough semblance 
of order in the heaps and on the table a pile of 
vellum leaves had been sorted according to size 
and likeness. One lay apart from the rest with a 

lump of pumice on it.Dick looked about 

him blankly enough: no trace was here of Jean.. 

He left this small store-room in a deep discour¬ 
agement. The circumstances seemed to be writ¬ 
ten in a language he could not read: he pieced the 
various facts together, yet they did not fit. Had 
Jean come here? Had she made some discovery 
which so far escaped him? If so, what?— 

The first long sunbeam touched the parapet 
as Dick came out again. A chimney-stack stand- 



THE WAY OUT 


307 


ing prominently against the sky, caught his at¬ 
tention, and he wandered over to it. Standing 
under its shadow he looked about him hither and 
yon; and suddenly his heart beat because he saw 
what he had half-unconsciously expected to 
see. 

Nothing could be more beautiful than the 
chimneys of Shank. They seemed to grow like 
clusters of young trees, tall, graceful, their stems 
carved with an infinite variety of decorative de¬ 
tail, to spring with an exultant aspiration toward 
the zenith. No two of these chimney-groups 
were exactly alike, while this stack differed from 
the rest because it sprang from the ground rather 
than from the building itself. Ivy grew thickly 
over this wing and the foot of the stone projection 
which these chimneys formed was hidden in a 

bush of it. What Dick saw was merely this. 

In the cleft of the recess behind the chimney- 
stacks, a series of iron bars had been morticed one 
above the other, forming a ladder which an active 
person could use without difficulty. One end of 
this ladder was hidden by the ivy growth at the 
foot, while the other lay sunk deep m the shadow 
of the projecting stone-work. Here was a practi¬ 
cal method of ingress or egress to Shank, provid¬ 
ing that the doors to the roof were always left as 
unguarded as Dick had found them. If Jean had 
followed the same route as himself, guided by the 
suggestion on the charred letter, she might read¬ 
ily by this ladder have descended into the Park, 
and so away. The question now was not how, 
but why , Jean should have run away. 




308 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


This was the problem that tormented Monkton 
as he climbed down the ladder to the ground, 
pushed aside the matted ivy stems and found 
himself on the least-frequented side of the Great 
House. The ivy stems did not part easily: the 
ladder was evidently seldom used. But surely it 
was plain that the second man Dick had seen— 
the one he beheld on the stair, torch in hand, and 
who was no doubt the murderer of Paul Stern— 
had made his entry into Shank by this means. 
And now Dick supposed that Jean, for some 
amazing reason of her own, had chosen it in 
order to make her departure. The baffling thing 
was that nothing he had seen accounted for 
her disappearance. His expedition to the roof 
had shown him nothing except an ingenious 
method of leaving if one wished to do so. But 
why should she have wished to do so? What 
had she found that had escaped his eyes? And 
from whom was the letter which had directed 
them both to the roof? 

Dick spent an hour in the Park wandering and 
wandering: he was no wiser when he entered the 
breakfast-room than he had been the night 
before. 

M. Charles’s greeting was cheery: he stood by 
the window reading the Times and one might 
well have supposed that he had not a care in the 
world. This serenity of expression did not last 
very long; but gave way, as he read, to the some¬ 
what harassed look which his face now often 
wore. 

Richard set to work on his breakfast as one 


THE WAY OUT 


309 


who has had a walk beforehand and for a few 
minutes neither spoke. 

“Any news?” he asked lightly enough and M. 
Charles’s answer was prompt: 

“None. I am at my wits’ end. The affair is 
mystifying and vexatious to the highest degree.” 

“I don’t ask,” Dick pursued, biting a muffin, 
“if you found anything out of order, because of 
course, I know you didn’t.” 

The elder man glanced at him and replied 
“No,” rather shortly. The calm young man was 
eating his breakfast with the appetite of youth 
and the remark showed an independence of judg¬ 
ment which caused M. Charles to drum his fin¬ 
gers on the table. Up to this event he had 
counted on Dick’s docility with confidence and 
on his fidelity as that of a youth owing him 
everything. At moments lately he had begun to 
doubt and this doubt was insufferable. 

“What are you going to do next?” 

“What can one do? There is no law to bring 
back a runaway secretary if she chooses to give 
up her wages. I am writing to the girl’s 
mother—■” 

“Shank seems to be keeping up its reputation, 
M. Charles, doesn’t it? Burglary, murder and 
disappearances! What will it be tomorrow, I 
wonder?” 

M. Charles looked as though this pleasantry 
did not amuse him and changed the subject. “I 
shall be relieved when your affairs and those of 
the succession are settled, at all events.” 

“Ah, have you heard from Mr. Scrope?” 


310 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“Yes. He writes there is to be another exam¬ 
ination at the Law Institute next week. More 
or less informal, he says; but if I know anything 
of London, everybody will want to be there.” 

“More than I shall be.” 

Mr. Ventris curbed an irritable gesture. “I 
can’t see why he maintains this attitude,” was 
his inward comment— “It must be an affecta¬ 
tion!” while aloud his reply was: “You are prob¬ 
ably going to have some fighting, my dear boy, 
perhaps it will rouse your spirit. Listen to this!” 
Unfolding the Times, he read aloud: 

“Sydney, Australia. 

“The Hastings Relief Expedition, from which no news 
had been heard since its departure from here, has reached the 
Antarctic ice-pack in safety and is proceeding along Weddell 
Land. Word was brought by a seal fisher trading at Deso¬ 
lation Island that the exploring party of whom Captain 
Maitland and Sir Lycett Monkton are the head has been 
reported as safe in winter quarters, plentifully provisioned. 
The members three months ago were in good health. The 
Relief ship Penguin should reach their camp within a com¬ 
paratively short time. Especial interest attaches to the meet¬ 
ing from the fact that Sir Lycett Monkton will then hear 
for the first time not only of his inheritance of Shank Park 
with its magnificent and world-famous collection, but also 
that a Claimant to them has appeared whose pretentions 
are supported by the present Lady Monkton.” 

While Mr. Ventris was thus occupied, a foot¬ 
man entered the room and stood waiting for him 
to finish. 

“Mr. Coles, sir, to see you in the Estate 
Office.” 

That Coles was a thorn in M. Charles’s side 



THE WAY OUT 


311 


Dick of course, guessed; yet the sharpness of 
that prick surprised him. Mr. Ventris closed the 
Times and folded it, with a movement almost vio¬ 
lent. That pale actor’s face of his, straight 
mouth and blazing eyes, became a sudden deadly 
image of hate. He laid down the Times and 

strode out of the room.When Dick saw 

him some hours later, his face had recovered its 
gentleness, although the purple shadows had 
deepened under his tired eyes. It was human 
that, while M. Charles was irritably reflecting 
on what he felt to be the supreme affectation of 
the Claimant’s reluctance for all the business 
connected with the succession, the Claimant on 
his part w T as surprised to see how unfavorably 
the nerves of the elder man showed the strain 
of it! After all, why should he be so intensely 

concerned ? He was not the Claimant.And 

then Dick philosophized on the strange passions 

of men.feeling the presence of what he 

could not understand. 

The quiet day moved on through its golden 
hours, bringing with it no news of Jean. More 
than once Dick felt an impulse to speak of the 
charred pieces of paper in his pocket and the 

fruitless expedition they had sent him on. 

but some instinct restrained him. It w^ould be 
hard to speak of them without revealing that 
which he knew he must hide. 

Save for the cloud that hung over them, the 
day passed as other days at Shank. Dick had 
supposed that M. Charles would send for the 
police, but there was no indication that M. Char- 







312 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


les had any such intention. He kept a good deal 
to himself and when he joined them he was more 
silent than his wont—it was evident that the af¬ 
fair perplexed and depressed him. Dick would 
have made some show of sympathy—if only M. 
Charles had been more charitable! 

Denise Monkton too, seemed oppressed and 
fell into one of her fits of languor. When Dick 
offered to read to her, she accepted, with her 
warm smile—but her eyes were fixed and there 
were moments when he knew she was not listen¬ 
ing. He felt that she was under high nervous 
tension which it took all her strength to control 

.Once M. Charles joined them for half an 

hour and spoke in his natural playful vein as 
though he felt more in spirits. As he approached, 
her gaze had mutely followed him and when he 
restlessly wandered off again Dick saw that Lady 
Monkton’s eyes were closed and her face relaxed 
as though in relief. How pitiable, to his mind, 
and what a revelation, was her dependence! 

After awhile he too felt restless and went for 
a walk in the Park. Pausing near a gardener at 
work, he enquired if the clouds portended rain. 
The old fellow shook his head as he looked up¬ 
ward . 

“It be a koind of a bloight, it be,” was all he 
vouchsafed and Dick found himself repeating the 
phrase. That was exactly what it was, he 
thought; a kind of a blight—a blight over his 
heart. Oh where was Jean? Why had she fled? 
Had that long revealing look on the bridge been 
at the bottom of it? 




THE WAY OUT 


313 


And then, by the late post, he received a letter: 
he took it, as a matter of fact, from the hand of 
Gapper who hobbled up to the Guard-house with 
the mail-bag. The postmark was London and 
his first glance showed that the communication 
was unsigned. The writing occupied but one 
sheet and was couched in these words: 

“Miss Lang is safe, although she has been in great danger. 
If you wish to know where she is, go alone to the King 
Street Spink and ask for Lancelot Ayloffe. Above all, if 
you have any regard for her safety, destroy this letter and 
make no mention of it or of its contents to anybody in 
Shank.” 

That was all. The handwriting was not 
Jean’s: he saw that at once. But he saw some¬ 
thing else. Before he carried out the wish of his 
unknown correspondent and touched a match to 
the letter, he confirmed this suspicion to cer¬ 
tainty. The handwriting on this communication 
and on the burnt piece which had been given him 
by Annie the housemaid were unmistakably the 
same. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

THE FACE BETWEEN THE CANDLES 

S USPICION is like a drop of oil; though it 
fall on the mind in one spot, yet erelong the 
remotest thoughts are tainted with it. Dick had 
not finished the destruction of this short note be¬ 
fore his uneasiness took the form of a sudden and 
dominant conviction. Jean had been in danger; 
Jean had disappeared, someone at Shank was 
responsible for this danger, for this disappear¬ 
ance. Could it be possible that the surprise was 
a farce, acted for his benefit? Had Jean’s flight 
been planned and assisted because of his own 
interest in her? This, Dick reflected, not a little 
ruefully, was odd when he himself had only just 
become aware that he was interested in her! Yet 
in the black eyes of M. Charles, there was to be 
read a world weary knowledge and prevision.. 
.... Suppose that Jean’s loyalty had been worked 
on in order to play upon Dick’s own ignorance 
of this strange world wherein these people 
moved: then why should she have been in dan¬ 
ger? And surely so melodramatic a form of dis¬ 
appearance would be just the thing to keep a 

314 


BETWEEN THE CANDLES 


315 


lover's feeling stimulated and aroused.? 

Take it from another angle. Suppose Jean knew 
something, or had found out something, then 
what? Something about the man who had been 
killed, or about the person who had killed him? 
Something perhaps of obscurer implication?.... 
..He recalled the photograph she showed him, 
that wedding-group, with the bride in the centre 
of it smiling under her big, plumed hat. He had 
seen no trace of it in her room when they 
searched there, he and M. Charles.Cer¬ 
tainly the affair was inexplicable. 

Dimly, Dick began to find his suspicions reach¬ 
ing forth in the direction of a plan—some large 
plan, intricate and iniquitous, in which Jean’s dis¬ 
appearance was merely the removal of a captured 
piece from the board—in which, he himself, pos¬ 
sibly, might be the next pawn to disappear. 

This plan, the eyes of his mind beheld only in 
penumbra of the vaguest outlines—as one had 
had the sense of Liverpool behind that black 
curtain of fog—his thoughts ran about the corri¬ 
dors of his imagination baffled, hither and yon, 
like a blinded man.These troubled and tu¬ 

multuous doubts followed him about and deep¬ 
ened with the passing of time though he fought 
against them. Gratitude, loyalty, affection, made 

a valiant stand in defence of his hosts.And 

yet. 

He tried to divert himself, first with a book ; 
then with a neglected letter to a friend at home. 
This was harder than the book: Dick tore up a 
couple of beginnings and in despair strolled over 










316 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


to the book-cases again. The great Library at 
Shank had been divided on one side into al¬ 
coves, where the cases concealed one from the 
sight of other persons in the room. A sound at 
the desk he had just left came to the young man's 
ears, he lifted his head to peer over the low shelf 
into the room. Standing beside the desk was the 
butler, Hays. His back was toward Richard, but 
light from the near-by window made his actions 
plain and they were, to say the least, peculiar. 
He held a magnifying glass, one of those which 
were always kept in the Manuscript Room, and 
by its aid he carefully examined the blotter which 
Dick had just been using. Then he held a pocket- 
mirror to the blotter. Then he replaced the lat¬ 
ter on the desk and turned his attention to the 
waste basket, picking out the bits of paper 
containing the unfinished letter which Sir Rich¬ 
ard had just thrown into it. Dick could see his 
sleek dark head, which rose straight from the 
collar; his bushy eye-brows over red-rimmed 
eyes and his servile mouth which when it parted 
showed the gums above the teeth. He worked 
quietly, his movements were governed by a pre¬ 
cision and speed which suggested training of a 
sort.Dick held his breath in fear and dis¬ 

gust. He hated Hays. When the butler had col¬ 
lected the bits of paper, he set the basket down 
and left the room as quickly and noiselessly as 

he had entered it. 

This incident made Richard still more 
wretchedly restless. After a moment he too 
went out, walked about during the afternoon and 




BETWEEN THE CANDLES 


317 


gave himself up to formulating the impulse that 
possessed him. His course was determined. He 
must go at once to London, find Jean and probe 
the whole matter to the bottom. Were he in 
truth Sir Richard Monkton there were respon¬ 
sibilities to be shouldered without delay. Too 
long, far too long, had others assumed them in 
his stead. If there was a wrong, he must know 
it. If M. Charles were being played upon, de¬ 
ceived, misled, about Jean, then he, Richard, 
must set M. Charles right. In this misery of sus¬ 
picion he could live no longer.Whatever 

the outcome, his doubts must be satisfied. 

Turning over these thoughts in his mind on 
his return to the house and while the grey dusk 
deepened in the wide spaces of Shank, Dick sat 
apparently in reverie. All around him was the 
quiet that only a Great House knows, where 
sounds become lost and diluted, resolving them¬ 
selves into mere murmurs of human presence. 
Fretted ceiling spread over his head—the glor¬ 
ious Sir Joshua smiled down upon him. Through 
the half-open door the spaces of the drawing¬ 
room with their rich contents lost themselves 
in distance. Without, the fountain in the court¬ 
yard gave to his meditations the soft background 
of falling water. Shank, above, below, about him, 

spread its vast acres of stately treasure. 

Surely, Shank held its own secrets! Not a whis¬ 
per through those long halls of violent death, of 

cruelty, of flight, of disappearance?.Not a 

whisper. 

Lady Monkton came silently in, delighting 






318 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Dick’s eye as ever, by the grace of her white dra¬ 
peries. He looked up at the portrait of Lady 
Molly, from the chair where he sat, and then as 
Denise paused, he met her questioning gaze with 
a sober look. 

“What are you thinking of, Riccardo mio?” 
she asked him, “you look so grave.” 

“I was thinking about death and immortality,” 
he answered as he gave a little shiver. 

“Choose a brighter afternoon for such solemn 
meditations, then—Do you see how dusk it is? 
It will rain soon.” 

He turned his gaze from her to the picture 
again. “I was just thinking of Lady Molly and 
her fate—she died, didn’t she, of small-pox, not 
long after Sir Joshua painted her? Well, I love 
him for giving her such immortality while she 
was still young and radiantly beautiful. To die, 
when one looked like that—it’s the very worst 
thing that can happen.” 

The smile remained on Lady Monkton’s lips 
but vanished from her eyes. 

“Do you think death, Diccon, the worst that 
can befall?” she asked him. 

“Why, of course! Don’t you?” 

His words seemed suddenly to loose some 
strange emotion in her: startlingly, she beat her 
long hands together. 

“Death is not the final end—no, no!” she cried 
out, in her lisp—“a bitterer ending can happen to 
beauty than death! It’s much harder to see the 
beauty that one loves, whether of mind or body, 



BETWEEN THE CANDLES 319 

—alter, deteriorate, slowly, steadily for the 
worse!” 

He was moved by her strange vehemence, 
which seemed beyond her will so that he hardly 
knew what to answer. 

“Ah, but in that case, there's hope—one can do 
something—” he said awkwardly. 

“Not where we love!” 

This was never Dick's doctrine, and he sprang 
up from his chair to protest. 

“Do you mean we can't help those we love to 
do better?” he said incredulously: “why, that's 

absurd.when we love we can influence the 

person_.. 

“No—no,” she repeated and he thought her 
manner nervously overwrought—“no, no, where 
we love we can only follow, follow!” 

“Oh but that's a very blind devotion and would 
lead one into all sorts of trouble.. .You wouldn’t 
follow to some bad end—now would you?” 

“To whatever end!” She had fought her smile 
back, but it seemed artificial enough: and she be¬ 
gan to speak very fast and incoherently. 

“You don't understand; you are young, far, 
far too young—you know nothing yet of life and 
the meshes that lie about one's feet. You stand 
in the sunshine, still; it's all clear to you—natur¬ 
al, simple—There seems only one possible way— 
you show that so plainly, Diccon: in your world 
no doubt, it is so! But, oh, later on in life, things 
change. One hardly noticed the door through 
which one passed—till one finds oneself in the 
path where there's no turning back. Perhaps we 





320 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

have another by the hand and so we just follow 
on—to keep—to keep hold of the hand—” 

“Like a child in the dark?” He spoke as lightly 
as he could, to restore her. 

“Like a child—into the dark!” she repeated and 
a long shudder overtook her from head to foot. 
The young man was embarrassed and troubled: 
obviousness seemed the safeguard. 

“Well I don’t agree—Love brings responsi¬ 
bility.” 

“Ah, my dear boy!” she replied and the melody 
of her voice rang in his ears. They talked no 
further for M. Charles entered the room, looking 
and acknowledging that he felt harassed and 
tired. 

Tea was brought in; but no cheerfulness came 
with it. M. Charles did not brighten the hour, 
as was his wont, with his rich vein of knowledge, 
fancy, anecdote. Lad}^ Monkton had sunk back 
into quiet, but Dick noticed that her hand shook 
when it lifted her cup. He himself felt the de¬ 
pression. Ever since the morning of Jean’s dis¬ 
appearance, gloom and apprehension hung over 
Shank in a cloud. 

As evening drew on, a small rain fell. Lady 
Monkton, pleading headache, withdrew immedi¬ 
ately after dinner, leaving the two men together. 
Though it was late August, the damp touch of 
the night made it pleasant to be indoors. The 
Oak Parlor was filled with soft indirect light, 
the windows made golden patches on the wet 

flags of the terrace.Dick, extending his 

long frame in an easy chair, had an eye to the 





BETWEEN THE CANDLES 


321 


radiance of the room, no less than for the pic¬ 
ture which the figure of M. Charles presented 
at his writing-table. M. Charles declared he had 
much to do—the sale would take place before 
many days. He had already several offers for 
the Canticles, because that work of art had be¬ 
come the talk of Europe. 

Therefore he sat in his place writing and mak¬ 
ing notes. The only lights were placed below the 
pictures causing them to rise gloriously out of 
their frames like a vision of saints, revealed to 
the true worshipper—yet M. Charles wrote by 
the light of two tall wax candles, their pure and 
steady flame casting a slender nimbus about his 
head. His expression was fine and compelling, 
showing in the repose of thoughtfulness, its lines 
of dominating will. Dick hated, dreaded what 
was coming. 

“I find I shall have to go to London tomor¬ 
row/’ He spoke abruptly: he plunged in. 

M. Charles abstractedly blotted his page. 
“Well,” he responded, not yet looking up, “I 
daresay we can manage to run up to town for the 
day.” 

“I’m afraid that won’t do. I guess I may have 
to stay several days.” 

“Ah?” the polite intonation was untouched, 
“if it must be so, then perhaps we can manage 
to stay over a day or so, although it isn’t quite 
convenient for me to leave Shank this week. Sup¬ 
pose we wait until next ? Then we can see Scrope, 
and I have these tiresome details of the sale—” 

Evidently, the plunge had not been deep 


322 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


enough. “Fm sorry, sir, but next week won’t do 
for me. But there’s no need to drag you up to 
town on my account.” 

This time M. Charles raised his head and his 
eyes looked steadily between the two candle 
flames at his companion. 

“H’m—” said he, “private business, eh?” 

“I think, sir, it had better be private.” 

Mr. Ventris blotted another page, wiped his 
pen with care, slipped his papers into the table 
drawer, closed it. 

“Richard,” his tone was studiously playful, 
“can this be the Declaration of Independence?” 

M. Charles had a way of making Dick feel that 
he were on the stage. Was it the intensity .that 
lay in his face, in the mobile qualitiy of his won¬ 
derful voice, the glitter of his glance? He sat 
so very still, between the candle flames, smiling 
over his folded hands, that the younger man had 
a creep not unlike fear. To hide it, he took refuge 
himself in stage business: lit another cigarette 
and tried it before replying. 

“That would be rather an exaggeration,” he 
answered lightly, “but it’s true that I have one 
or two private matters to attend to and that, for 
once, I needn’t bother you to keep me straight.” 

“It’s no bother. Not only are you a stranger, 
but your personal situation at the moment is a 
delicate one—until the Home Secretary grants 
your petition one doesn’t know quite what you 
are. My dear lad, I’d far rather you didn’t go 
foot-loose in London and perhaps be taken ad¬ 
vantage of.” 


BETWEEN THE CANDLES 


323 


So reasonable, so persuasive his voice! Dick 
found it hard to answer. M. Charles, as always, 
had a way of melting one's opposition—had the 
gift of utilizing against it all the resources of his 
remarkable personality, which made him well- 
nigh irresistible. Dick could only say a little 
gruffly, that he wasn't going to be taken advan¬ 
tage of and a pause fell. The face between the 
candle flames had lost its delicate and .smiling 
ease. 

“Quite so—quite," Mr. Ventris placed his fin¬ 
gers together, “Just the same, I would rather, 
very much rather, that you were not seen around 
alone in London just now. I have my reasons— 
ah, I know the world! What you have to do can’t 
be so important—and I think I have a claim to be 
heard in these questions of policy when so much 
hangs on them." 

“Unfortunately, sir, it is important—to me." 

“You have heard from Jean Lang!" 

The words shot at Richard: they almost 
seemed to leave a streak of flame in the air. He 
caught and held himself that they should not 
pierce him but his mouth quivered and M. Charles 
saw it. 

“You have heard—I insist on knowing what 
you have heard!" 

The youth took refuge in a shrug and kept 
silence. He was surprised the elder should show 
such excitement. 

“Diccon, I know the world as you can never 
know it—and I know England—none better—for 
I am not wholly English. Maybe in your coun- 



324 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


try things are simpler—and you don’t under¬ 
stand.Diccon, from the first moment that 

girl spread a net for you.I suspected it— 

Denise saw it.but we both thought you too 

sensible.Now she has run away to arouse 

your sympathy—to spur you on—to entangle 
you.Don’t you see it all ? She is the preda¬ 

tory type, the w'orse for being well-born, for 
knowing to the core the advantages you repre¬ 
sent. Why, my young friend—” he laughed 
loudly, harshly, and Dick looked between the 
candle-flames with a wince for M. Charles seldom 
laughed—“consider it! What hope is there for 
such a girl nowadays, after the War? There 
are a million of ’em—what else can they do? 
And this chance—shut up here in close propin¬ 
quity with Monkton of Shank, who knows no¬ 
body as yet.Why, it’s too good—it’s too 

good to lose!” 

He was really moved.odd, he should be 

so much moved! His feelings interfered with his 
persuasiveness—made that golden stream turgid. 
Dick looked at him and M. Charles seemed to 
feel that he had failed of an effect, so he deliber¬ 
ately quieted himself, paused, and went on. 

“You are American-educated and they are sup¬ 
posed to be shrewd enough. This is at the very 
crisis of your fate as this girl knows very well. 

Stay away from her.if only for my sake— 

and I think you owe me that, Diccon—don’t be 
taken in.” 

This recovered control gave Dick a hope he 
might hear reason. “M. Charles,” he said, speak- 











BETWEEN THE CANDLES 


325 


ing very earnestly, “I can’t believe your knowl¬ 
edge of the world stops short so you don’t recog¬ 
nize honesty, loyalty, when you come across 
them.” 

“You say that in face of this woman’s sus¬ 
picious, underhand flight?” 

“I do, because I am sure Miss Lang’s act will 
be found to have another explanation.” 

“What explanation could it have? Oh you are 
quite, quite mad, my dear boy!” 

No help for it, since they had gone so far. “I 
suspect, sir. Miss Lang found out—something, 
which made her flight an act of loyalty to you—” 
The other stiffened as though he had been sud¬ 
denly frozen. His voice, when he spoke, dropped 
a note, “What—is it? What—do you mean?” 

he said unsteadily. 

It was a quarrel now: no help for it: best speak 
out and cleanse the air. M. Charles kept his 
place, but Dick was on his feet. Yet he was 
much the calmer of the two. There was through¬ 
out in the manner of the seated man, a sort of 

cold agitation very horrible to witness. 

“It’s best to be frank—I’m sure it’s always best 

___From the first moment, M. Charles, I have 

felt that there was something—I don’t under¬ 
stand.something, I didn’t like.I’m not 

ungrateful, M. Charles-it isn’t that—but one 

must know!” He raised his voice, “A man must 
know where he stands. There is something 

wrong at Shank.That man who was shot? 

Why was it never followed up? And Miss Lang 
suspected—she must have suspected and so she 







326 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


ran away.If only I were sure—because I 

am always your friend.Yes: I must see Miss 

Lang and find out all she knows.I can’t 

stand this fog any longer.” 

As Dick’s sentences, broken with pain, went 
on, stopped, started again to stop again, Mr. 
Ventris sat, his gaze stonily steady, deadly as 
that of a coiled snake waiting for its enemy to 
move. His head followed with small viperine 
passes each gesture of the speaker. Thus he 
dreadfully watched and waited...... 

“If we could only talk it over together and set 
it right,” Dick went on, less hopefully—“you are 
protecting someone, M. Charles, I fear—if 
only—?” 

The imploring note in his voice brought a cer¬ 
tain smile to M. Charles’s lips. 

“You are a very foolish and fanciful lad—your 
imagination has run away with you,” he an¬ 
swered, trying to speak lightly while the candles 
lit the ominous disquiet of his face. “What could 
be wrong at Shank? But if you really feel that 
there is anything to be said in Miss Lang’s de¬ 
fence, I am quite ready to listen to you—and of 
course to her.What is this idea, this sus¬ 

picion of my secretary’s?” 

Dick shook his head. “She has not told me.” 

“Quite so,” said the other in his mellifluous 
tone, “whereabouts is she, then, that we may ask 
her about it?” 

“I’m sorry,” Dick replied with an effort, “but 
I am not allowed to tell you that.” 

M. Charles shifted some papers on his desk and 








BETWEEN THE CANDLES 


327 


leaned back in his chair: his unquiet smile was 
more definite. 

“We do not get very far in that event,” said 
he and spread abroad his hands, "Don’t you see 
the fool she’s making of you? She whistles and 
you follow—forgetting all that’s been done for 
you—forgetting everything!” 

"No sir, not that—never that.” 

"Then you certainly will be guided by my ex¬ 
perience, Diccon. Be reasonable. I—Lady 
Monkton is Miss Lang’s employer and surely the 
proper person for her to communicate with. If 

it be anything wrong so much the more. 

Surely she need not be afraid to speak to me if it 
is as you think?” 

He was so convincing; so hard to resist: he 
waited: Dick miserably waited. 

"I am acting, Diccon, in your interests only. 
You are Monkton of Shank. If you are the sen¬ 
sible and intelligent being I have believed you to 
be, you will place this matter unreservedly in my 
hands to be dealt with in a dignified and proper 
manner. Afterwards it is your own affair. To¬ 
night you owe me this at least.” 

His words fell slowly, weightily; his eyes wide 
open and commanding, rested on Dick. Dick 
got up. 

"I’m sorry you feel that way about it,” was 
his blunt answer, "because I am not going to give 
you Miss Lang’s address until I’ve talked to her 
first.” 

A deep pause fell; the very portraits on the 
walls looked down, holding their breath. 




328 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

“Diccon—be careful how you oppose me., 
it is—unwise—to cross me!” 

The whisper came from the candle-flames; 
they wavered, casting strange shadows over the 
face thrust out between them. Richard made a 
step toward the door. The wicked eyes glinted. 

“Take carer said M. Charles, “I picked you 

out of the street.take care, I don't send you 

back to it!" 

Their gaze encountered, foil on foil, for a long 
moment. Then Dick, with a gesture of despair, 
went out.. 




CHAPTER XXVIII 

ADVENTURES OF SIX SHILLINGS 

O N a ruddy morning after the rain, Richard 
left Shank. His first impulse had been to 
go the night before, but this he checked as hot¬ 
headed and discourteous to Lady Monkton. Ris¬ 
ing early, he packed his bag, into which he did 
not forget to place the illuminated Virgil given 
back to him by the purchaser and which he now 
cherished as a relic of past existence. His feel¬ 
ing was hurt and bewildered: and yet at bottom 
he did not regard the break as final. When his 
petition was granted, he and Charles Ventris 
would come together again; they were bound by 
ties which could not be severed through any per¬ 
sonal differences. 

When his packing was done, he wrote two 
notes; one to his hostess explaining that he had 
been called away for a few days and that M. 
Charles would explain. The other was longer. 

“Your anger and insult were hard to bear,” Dick wrote, 
“since neither is deserved. I am simply doing what is sensible 
as well as right in trying to find out where I stand. But I 
owe you too many kindnesses to leave you without a word. 
329 


330 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


I shall write you my plans when they are settled— and I wish 
you could have let me go without such bitter words. Foolish 
words, too, let me say, for if I am not Monkton of Shank you 
could not make me so and if I am Monkton of Shank your 
anger will not alter the fact.” 

This thought lingered in Dick’s mind as he 
strode off, bag in hand, to the railway station, 
having refused the butler’s horrified offers to 
send him there in the motor. He walked down 
the avenue and at the lodge, turned for a last 
look at the splendid pile, lying in all its insolent 
stateliness under the morning sunshine. “If that 
is mine,” was his defiance, “they cannot keep me 
out of it!” and he set his face forward whistling. 
At the bottom of his mood lay the warm and 
golden certainty that he was going to see Jean. 
True, he had avoided committing himself in that 
regard during last night’s quarrel, but largely 
from a young shyness of self-defence. His feel¬ 
ing had in all honesty hardly yet crystallized into 
any'resolve. Had he been asked point-blank if 
he intended to marry Jean he would have an¬ 
swered truthfully that he did not know. How 
could he know when he could look back only on a 
long interchange of glances? What he did know 
was a two-fold fact of feeling—first that he 
needed Jean, because in her company he was at 
peace, he was himself; second, he believed in her 
honesty, in her truth. This last had grown from 
an uneasiness to a vital necessity, to an imperious 
demand of the soul. In all that gorgeous maze of 
Shank and in the strange group moving within 
it to their own ends, the beloved, picturesque M. 


ADVENTURES OF SIX SHILLINGS 


331 


Charles, the obscurely-tortured Denise Monk- 
ton; their subordinates, the subservient Scrope, 
the untrustworthy Hays, the sinister Coles— 
among* all these personalities Jean alone had 

walked in the light.One could trust Jean, 

believe in Jean. 

Thus as Dick drew away from those gilded 
towers, somehow his spirit lightened. He had a 
fancy that to live at Shank was to submit to age¬ 
long influences of greed and arrogance and de¬ 
ceit. Shank had housed tyrannies and cruelties 
and crimes—it had created its own atmosphere 
and this was peculiar and not wholesome. To live 
for and with all that beauty, which centuries 
had as it were atrophied, seemed strangely to 
have warped the nature of its possessors. The 
perpetual suggestion had atrophied in them also 
certain of the more human qualities so there had 
grown up within those walls elements which 

might readily turn toward the monstrous. 

Life must not, to be vital, to be real, centre 
wholly upon things. 

Beyond the gates of Shank the pleasant coun¬ 
tryside turned to Dick a fresh and welcome coun¬ 
tenance.The village street was full of 

children with faded pinafores and wheat-colored 
hair. Boys were taking down shop-window 
shutters, maids were on their knees by the door¬ 
step; bakers’ carts were rattling by, it was all 
bright, material, comfortable, like home. That 
home had often seemed ugly and arid, when one’s 
soul was starved for beauty but at this moment 
the memory of it was recalled like a charm to dis- 






332 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


solve an evil spell. Yet, Dick reflected, as he 
underwent this familiar reaction of the American 
—why should the spell be evil? What caused it 
was the nature of the owners, not of the beauty 
itself. Or was it from a mere surfeit of pos¬ 
sessions? Anyhow, the evil at Shank lay not in 
things, but in men. 

By this time, he had reached the railway and 
setting down his bag, put hand in pocket for his 
wallet, in order to buy his ticket. His wallet 
was not there. Moreover his wallet was not in 
any of his pockets, nor in his bag—nor any¬ 
where. Bewildered, he stood like a man stunned 
—trying to remember. His recollection could not 
lie. He had looked through his resources of 
money before placing his wallet in his accus¬ 
tomed pocket. He had breakfast alone and just 
before leaving, Hays had taken his coat respect¬ 
fully away in order, as he said, to brush it—Hays, 
of course! 

The situation was serious. In Dick’s trouser 
pocket he had but five or six shillings—and Lon¬ 
don was forty miles away. Moreover, he had 
well-nigh depleted his little capital taken from 
the States—and his wallet therefore held pretty 
nearly every cent he had in the world. A very 
simple and effective method to stop his journey! 
—this was his grim reflection and a new deter¬ 
mination swept over him that it should not stop 
his journey! They under-estimated him—he 
thought—and they should see. 

What to do next was the question. Return to 
Shank and make a row? It would be useless as 



ADVENTURES OF SIN SHILLINGS 333 


he knew very well.His bag seemed heavy 

as he left the station platform and turned slowly 

once more into the village-street.A few 

yards further on he met Mr. Waverley, the 
vicar, also carrying a bag, and on foot which was 
by no means his habit. The Rev. Herbert Wav¬ 
erley was a soft and portly personage, talkative 
and good-humored. This morning, however, he 
looked put out and puffed with haste and vexa¬ 
tion. 

“So annoying, Sir Richard,” he burst forth 
upon their greeting, “that beast of a chauffeur of 

mine chose last night to get drunk again. 

And here I am, due at Bramley for a wedding at 
noon and nothing but that slow train—missed 
the express ! If it should be late—!” 

“Is that so?” Dick had a flash of inspiration— 
“too bad—but you've an American car, haven't 
you? Why not let me drive you down, sir? We 
could beat that old train by half an-hour if we 
start right off. I am off to London; but I'll pick 
up the train at Bramley every bit as well and I'd 
far rather spin you down.” 

“Not really?” responded the vicar and it was 
pleasant to see the genial smile break out like 
sunshine on his clearing face, “Would you, Sir 
Richard? Could you now?—Of course—and 
you know all about these American motor-cars! 
Really, it would be most kind and such a piece of 
luck for me!” 

“And for me," said Sir Richard truthfully 
enough; for Bramley was twenty miles nearer to 
London than Shankmere. 





334 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“Dear, dear—what a piece of luck,” Mr. Wav- 
erley repeated with the happiest accent of relief 
—“Shall we be getting on to the garage—it's just 
around the corner? Oh, I am obliged—an old 
friend’s daughter, you know, and all of them 
expecting me to officiate..... .Hate to hurry 
at a wedding, y’know—so undignified—and I 
counted on the car. No doubt that lazy beast of 
mine will have sobered up enough by tomorrow 

to bring me home—but today he’s blind. 

And how’s dear Lady Monkton and all at 
Shank?” 

Thus chatting in the fullness of his relief, the 
vicar conducted Dick to the garage where their 
bags were stowed away into the car and within 
a few minutes more they were gliding gaily along 
the smooth high-road to London. At the bridge, 
Dick looked back. Shank rose gloriously upon 
its} hill and towered over them. Another flash 
and it was gone. 

If the sky was not the bright turquoise to 
which Dick was accustomed, yet it was limpid 
and studded with small clouds. Before them, the 
road stretched like a brown ribbon, on either 
hand. The cottages sat, with their thatched roofs 
pulled over their eyes. 

Eased of his anxiety, the vicar discoursed gaily 
in his round and mellow voice. The weather— 
the crops—the beauty of Shank—the car, which 
had been a gift from his parishioners, all were 
passed in review. Dick was questioned on mat¬ 
ters American, the goodness of its motors, the 
badness of its roads, the kinds of its August 




ADVENTURES OF SIX SHILLINGS 


335 


weather, and Mr. Waverley’s bushy eyebrows 
and smiling mouth went up and down in sym¬ 
pathetic tune to the replies. For him the States 
possessed that fascination which they keep for so 
many quiet and untravelled Englishmen as the 
land of gigantic and limitless possibilities. 

“Did you chance to meet the lady, your coun¬ 
try-woman, who stayed some weeks at Shank 
Paddock ?” Mr. Waverley asked, as Dick slowed 
the car to pass a flock of sheep. “We still keep 
up that custom you know, Sir Richard, of letting 
those rooms. Began it during the War and Mrs. 
Waverley is loath to give it up while taxes are 
still so appalling—this Mrs. Byrd was very in¬ 
teresting to me. Did you know her?” 

Dick answered that they had only talked to¬ 
gether on two occasions; but that she had come 
to his rescue in the little matter of the burglar at 
Shank, of which he supposed Mr. Waverley had 
heard. 

“Quite so. Most amazing person—seemed to 
have no end of dollars. I never heard her ask 
once,” the vicar stated impressively, “about the 
cost of anything—! Although she was middle- 
aged she had such a fund of quaint humor—ex¬ 
pressions I had never even heard.And she 

carried a pistol which she called a gun!” 

Dick laughed and said he had cause to be glad 
she did. 

“Altogether, we liked Mrs. Byrd very much: 
I believe however that Lady Monkton did not 
call on her—of course being in mourning—she 
did not feel.But after Mrs. Byrd left 




336 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Shank Paddock, there was a rumor over the 
place that she was really an expert archaeologist 
investigating the antiques in the neighborhood. 
She never seemed to us to show any special in¬ 
terest in antiques. Wasn’t it odd ?” 

Dick agreed that it was odd and inwardly won¬ 
dered a little. The car sped smoothly on. 

As the vicar joyfully observed half-past eleven 
had not struck when they entered the main 
square of Bramley. A fine Abbey rose on one 
side of the square and there were still some 
beetle-browed old houses frowning over the nar¬ 
row streets but the general effect was modern; or 
rather it showed plainly enough the modern 
growth upon the ancient stem. The churchyard 
was reached through a Priory gate, with worn 
carvings supported on either hand by plate-glass 
shop-windows full of post-cards and souvenirs. 

Mr. Waverley’s friends lived beyond the town 
in an obese, brick mansion, of the bow-windowed, 
ivy-covered type, set in lawns with ornamental 
shrubbery and neither a manor-house nor a villa. 
It suggested youth, a good background and fur¬ 
nishings of the early Victorian era. That fes¬ 
tivities of no small importance were in progress 
was evident from the air of subdued bustle, 
voices from the open windows and the joyous 
rapidity with which the door was opened to the 
yicar. 

Naturally enough, Monkton’s own situation 
occupied his mind during the last few miles of 
the drive. The lucky accident of meeting Mr. 
Waverley had of course brought him that much 


ADVENTURES OF SIX SHILLINGS 


337 


nearer London; but a capital of six shillings 
is not much to enter that city at present, what¬ 
ever it may have been in the past. He remem¬ 
bered that he had in his possession his father’s 
gold watch which was good, though old, and his 
new silver cigarette-case. One could hardly have 
pawned these at Shankmere without exciting 
gossip, but he ought to be able to do so at Bram- 
ley. Once in London, there was the Virgil—it 

had brought £50 at his father’s sale.And 

after all, what was twenty-two miles? One 
could walk half of it during the long, sunshiny 
afternoon when no doubt at the end of 
ten miles or so, one should strike a tram-line 
into London. 

As the car turned into the rhododendron- 
bordered drive and stopped before the welcoming 
butler, Dick had made up his mind to bid Mr. 
Waverley then and there a gay and nonchalant 
farewell. But this action, so natural in Dick’s 
eyes, appeared to fill the vicar with unwonted 
horror as quite unbecoming to Monkton of 
Shank. His shocked protest of “on no account, 
my dear fellow—wait a moment, I beg!” seemed 
so heartfelt that Dick could only acquiesce, rec¬ 
ognizing the signs assuring him that what he 
proposed “wasn’t done.” “The fuss they make 
about the things that aren’t done!” he murmured 
to himself resignedly. A servant had seized his 
bag, and Mr. Waverley with further protests, 
literally dived into the interior of his friend’s resi¬ 
dence. In another moment he was out again, 




338 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


followed by a big, fine-looking, bearded Squire 
of a man, both of them talking at once—and talk¬ 
ing so hard that it took Dick a moment, in his 
great astonishment, to realize that they were in¬ 
sisting he should remain for the wedding. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

SIX SHILLINGS GO TO A WEDDING 

O away? Lunch anywhere else but in my 

vJ house, today of all days?” the Squire was 
asseverating in a voice as big as he was. “What, 
—Sir Richard Monkton—know Lady Monkton 
very well—knew Sir Piers for years—why, ’tisn’t 
to be thought of, couldn't be permitted for an in¬ 
stant—!” 

“And if it hadn’t been for Sir Richard, I might 
even have been late— lateV ’ this, impressively, 
from the vicar. 

“Quite so. Outrageous—my dear fella! You 
won’t grieve us by a refusal? You won’t cast a 
cloud over Muriel’s happiness? She’d be miser¬ 
able if she thought—. London can always wait. 
And there are some people coming down you 
are sure to know—all friends of course. No 
strangers!” 

If Dick was amused that this assurance was 
necessary to the Squire’s mind, yet it seemed 
more natural to him than to many Americans be¬ 
cause of the habits of his birthplace. He re¬ 
membered his father’s tale of a lady who gave 
339 


340 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


similar assurances to her guests, because, as she 
put it, “I know that Philadelphians only want to 
meet Philadelphians!” His doubts were on an¬ 
other score. He wore his grey suit and he 
thought it a very nice suit, but he made some 
remark about his clothes not being “just the 
ticket” for a wedding. But Dick had not yet 
learned the difference there is in England be¬ 
tween the inside and the outside, and what a li¬ 
cense it gave one to be Sir Richard Monkton of 
Shank. The Squire brushed the objection aside 
as applying to none but lesser mortals. 

“Oh come, come, we’re not so bad as all that, 
y’know—not since the War anyway—my sons 
can help you out—mustn’t leave us on that ex¬ 
cuse.!” and so on. So unforced was this 

hospitality, so cordial and jolly, that the young 
man could not stand out against it any longer. 
Almost before he realized it, he was ushered in¬ 
doors into rooms filled with the scent of roses 
where little maids were running about all 
rosy and excited. He was given into the charge 
of a tall officer son of the house, who accepted 
his rather dazed entrance into their family circle 
as the most natural thing in the world. Cer¬ 
tainly, life even within the limit of six shillings, 
had its smiling moments. 

As the kaleidescope of the day revolved, its 
bright hours fell into patterns of gayety. Dick 
liked the family. The Squire was a huge man 
at whose heel a dog was always trotting: his 
sons were just as big, but they had the wooden 
expression of their generation as opposed to the 



SIX SHILLINGS GO TO A WEDDING 341 


bluff exuberance of his. They drawled where he 
was explosive; were stiff while he gesticulated, 
moved with a middle-aged precision while his 
"God bless my soul!” could be heard all over the 
house. The Squire's wife was tall and grey-hair¬ 
ed and today wore much lace and there was a 
youngster or two whose curls shone in the sun. 
The bride gave Dick a kind welcome though a 
thought distracted, as was but natural. Several 
motors from town appeared and among them 
who but Lady Cecily, that "young giantess with 
the bales of hair,” Dick had met in London! 
Although he had thought her the most unre¬ 
sponsive of handsome girls and their talk had 
been confined to an interchange of banalities, yet 
Dick found she claimed him as a friend and 
undertook to pin a wedding-favor on his coat 
with an air of sisterly responsibility. He realized 
that the English being slow in talk, had come to 
base acquaintance upon undercurrents of sym¬ 
pathy which they are sensitive and quick to 
detect. 

When the wedding party was assembled the 
younger members of it strolled over to the Abbey 
church, where the bride's cousin played the or¬ 
gan and where already was gathered a decorous 
congregation. Things took their wonted course 
with smoothness and dignity. Mr. Waverley 
with his jerky sentences and plaintive manner, 
became robed and transformed into a being of 
artificial voice, unnatural intonation and ponti¬ 
fical solemnity. "The Voice that breathed o’er 
Eden” conducted the party of pretty girls up to 


342 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


the altar, and “Oh Perfect Love” led them down 
again. The Squire looked more nervous than 
his daughter and his great sigh of relief on 
emerging from the porch resounded all over the 
church-yard. A group of quaintly-dressed eld¬ 
erly persons were gathered just outside to give 
greeting by courtesies and murmurs in a dialect 
Dick failed to understand—while an extremely 
neat and shy little girl presented a bouquet to the 
bride. 

Monkton of Shank, by this time, was feeling 
almost at home. He looked about him as one 
does when among friends. The officer sons were 
splendid chaps: the children were fine little kids. 
If the bridegroom looked pale and stupid, the 
bride was “a peach”—and this time the term was 
accurately descriptive. When they trooped out 
he did not forget to say nice American things to 
the tall Lady Cecily and all the way over to the 
house afterwards he was absorbed by the dis¬ 
covery that he was ravenously hungry. 

“The Lord is certainly looking after my six 
shillings!” was his thought, as he started in to 
gratify that hunger. The wedding breakfast was 
spread on the terrace at the back of the house— 
which made a banqueting-hall with a soft green 
carpet and a bright, blue ceiling. Dick couldn’t 
see why there were awnings to keep off what he 
felt to be rather a tepid sun. He sat at the bride’s 
table, and was called the Wedding-Guest—and 
talked and laughed and made a speech which 
was no worse— if no better, than the others. Mr. 
Waverley, once more himself, quite beamed upon 


SIX SHILLINGS GO TO A WEDDING 343 


him. The Squire discussed anxiously with him 
the attitude of the States—“What do your public 
men now really think about the state of Europe, 
and is all the burden to fall on the United King¬ 
dom ?” 

The son of the house asked questions concern¬ 
ing big game shooting, base-ball, Palm Beach 
and Hollywood, which he thought to be in ad¬ 
joining counties—and the cabarets of New York, 
—and was privately immensely surprised at the 
ignorance which Monkton showed of all but one 
of these topics. 

The day waned. The wedding-party was 
photographed on the terrace with Sir Richard 

standing by the Squire.Then the bride 

changed into “powder-blue” with a long dust- 
cloak and a hat with a sweeping feather in it and 
went away on a terrific journey of an hour and a 
half. Richard threw rice with the rest; by this 
time he had come to accept the smile of Destiny 
so was not in the least surprised to find himself— 
thanks and farewells over—bowling along the 
road to town in Lady Cecily’s two -seater. That 
young woman had not hesitated to express to 
him her indignation that Sir Richard Monkton 
of Shank should be taking the train to London. 

“I s’pose you really are Sir Richard?” she 
added with the candor of her race: and looked 
oddly at him when he as frankly admitted that 
he didn’t know. 

The one drawback to this delightful day had 
been Dick’s fear that he might reach King Street 
after closing hours. But Lady Cecily handled 




344 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


her car with the recklessness of youth, unhamp¬ 
ered by any need to think about the road. It was 
only five o’clock when she set him down at his 
request in Piccadilly and no sooner was she out of 
sight when he hurried off down St. James’s in the 
direction of his goal. 

The shop for which he was bound consists of 
an outer and an inner room—more like drawing¬ 
rooms than anything else with cabinets and vit- 
rines crowded with small and precious objects, 
ancient jewellery, Canton enamels, ivories, 
bronzes and porcelains. No one occupied the 
outer room save a youth setting things to rights, 
but Dick had hardly uttered the name of Lance¬ 
lot Ayloffe than he heard an exclamation in the 
back premises and there darted out upon him a 
small, alert man—not many years older than 
himself and evidently in a state of high nervous 
tension. Even before he spoke he ran to the 
door and pulled the blinds down over the glass 
panels. 

“Sir Richard Monkton?” was his greeting, and 
his manner could not have been crisper: “Yes.. 

-yes. Where have you been? The 

Chief said you would be in today/' 

“But—” said Dick staring. 

“Come in here, please—I’d almost given you 
up—just going to telephone about you—No:"we 
won’t stay out here— somebody might come in 
any minute. Bring the bag, Jack,” he said, and 
almost pushed the new arrival into the inner 
apartment. This was more intimate than the out¬ 
er but none the less rich; with velvet curtains and 



SIX SHILLINGS GO TO A WEDDING 345 


hangings of dark red; cabinets with more jewels 
and bibelots against the walls; inlaid armor over 
the hearth and a long narrow table in no way 
resembling a counter, with a velvet cloth on it 

.An elderly man was replacing necklaces in 

a drawer and did not turn his head. 

‘‘Sorry, Sir Richard, but it's so late—the first 
thing we must do is to get you out of here safely 

.We close in a few minutes and there’s been 

a man hanging ’round the place all day.Did 

you see him as you came in?” 

“I didn’t notice—but then I wasn’t looking,” 
Dick answered, hesitating, puzzled and shy, now 
that it had come to the point of saying the name 
that was on his lips. “I came to ask you about 
an address—of a friend—I was told that you 
would tell me—” 

Mr. Lancelot Ayloffe had very bright eyes and 
a round, intelligent, good-humored face, whose 
expression was at this moment, however, decid¬ 
edly anxious. He seemed hardly able to wait 
until the other had finished speaking; he fidgeted 
and cast apprehensive glances toward the door.. 

“That’ll come all in good time,” he replied, 
“the question pressing now is to get you into 
safety. You weren’t molested as you came in?” 

“Good heavens, no!” Dick thought the man 
must be out of his head, but his rapid words con¬ 
tinued with sincere conviction. 

“The Chief said not—I thought you would be— 
there was poor Stern, you know. You’ve the 
Virgil in that bag, I hope? Good. Well, we’ve 
got to get you a place for a night or so—” 





346 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

Ayloffe couldn't be crazy, he was too business¬ 
like, although as one who is pressed for time. 

“It will have to be a pretty cheap joint at 
that—" Dick was forced to utter, but Ayloffe had 

already picked up his bag.“Perhaps you'll 

help me to get a loan on the Virgil—you see—" 

“Oh, that's all right! I knew you wouldn’t be 
having any money—" the other replied as if it 
were of no importance, “the Chief said you 
wouldn't—but that too can wait. Fortunately, 
I can fix you up for the moment—" 

“But—" was all Dick got out, unable to fin¬ 
ish as he wished by saying—“Who's the Chief 
—and how in Sam Hill did he know I'd lose my 
wallet?" because the other man was so evidently 
in such* a hurry that he paid no attention at all. 

“We mustn’t waste another second," he ejac¬ 
ulated, “Someone'll catch sight of us in here 
first thing you know—Come along with me!" 

The inner shop had no apparent exit, but as 
Ayloffe carrying Richard's bag turned the corner 
of the long table, the elderly assistant who had 
been at work there stooped and lifted a trap-door 
which opened on a flight of stairs. Down this 
Mr. Ayloffe plunged with clattering heels and 
Monkton after him. Doubts and hesitations 
crossed his mind but after all he was too poor to 
rob, and no alternative to this adventure offered 
itself to his mind at the moment. 

The stairs led merely to a work-room, white 
painted, with windows on an area, before which 
sat several workmen bent over small machines 
with magnifying lenses screwed into their eyes. 



SIX SHILLINGS GO TO A WEDDING 347 


Another door, and Ayloffe led the way through 
a long grimy passage, a cellar smelling of dust 
and stacked with crates and boxes. With a key 
he unlocked the door into a second cellar running 
at right angles to the first and Dick soon found 
himself in another passage, climbing a tall stair¬ 
case. It was quiet: they encountered nobody and 
by the doors on various landings he could per¬ 
ceive that the house was occupied with sets of 
chambers. 

At the very top, his guide opened a final door, 
discovering a bedroom, clean and comfortable if 
somewhat dingy, whose windows looked upon St. 
James’s Square. Upon a table was a tray with 
cold meat and salad. This haven reached, Mr. 
Ayloffe set down the bag and wiped his brow. 

“Sorry I can’t stay—have to go back at once,” 
he remarked, still with that concentration of anx¬ 
iety, “don’t know what may turn up in the next 

hour_I was in a wax about you as the day 

went on—though the Chief thought you’d be 

late.You’re quite safe here, keep your door 

locked and don’t show yourself at the window.. 
.... Oh I know you want to hear all about it 
and I’ll run up tomorrow just as early as I can—” 
He was evidently fidgeting to be off. 

“But look here!” the other cried disgusted and 
embarrassed, “I don’t understand—I came mere¬ 
ly to ask where—” 

“Miss Lang’s all right—I was to say that right 
away—She’s all right,” Ayloffe replied and hur¬ 
ried to the door; “Keep yourself to yourself till 
I return now, Monkton, won’t you? There’s 




348 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


a good fellow, and more hangs on it perhaps than 
you can realize—” 

Then, seeing the disappointment in Richard's 
face, the little man came back into the room and 
commanded himself to use a quieter voice and 
manner. 

“The Chief said we could rely on you entirely 
...... I know it's hard but I'll be here as early as 

I possibly can." He was half out of the door 
again as he spoke the last words, but he knocked 
once more on the panels to bid Monkton lock it 
after him. 

Maddening as the puzzle and the disappoint¬ 
ment were to Richard, yet it was plain that Ay- 
lofife's solicitude concerned not himself but his 
quest. Whatever harm was afoot, Ayloffe's 
role must be that of protector and Dick was far 
too ignorant to protest or to refuse obedience. 
Moreover, he was beginning to feel tired and the 
silence of the room was grateful. He tried to 
work out who these people were and what it all 
meant. Above all, how did this “Chief" of theirs 
know so accurately what his, Dick's movements 
had been and were going to be? How for ex¬ 
ample did this mysterious person know he would 
be robbed of his wallet ? Unless—oh but it was 
all mad, like a bad dream! 

He sat for a long time, wandering in a maze of 
conjecture and finally gave it up, ate some sup¬ 
per and tumbled into bed and into a sound sleep. 



CHAPTER XXX 

THE KING STREET SPINK 

A VIOLENT pounding on the door awakened 
him and he sprang out of bed to admit his 
host of the night before who came in bearing a 
tray laden with a substantial breakfast. Mr. Ay- 
Ioffe’s manner was quieter and less intense this 
morning, he appeared indeed to be a trifle apolo¬ 
getic. 

“I am due at the shop as soon as possible/’ he 
told his guest, “but I know you must want to 
ask many questions and there are some I must 
ask on my side/’ 

“Sit there and ask them while I get some 
clothes on/’ Dick suggested, “I suppose you 
know that I’m still in the dark?” 

“I know—but I must ask before answering. 
Last night, I had your safety to think of. Now 
do you mind telling me what happened at Shank 
just before you left there?” 

Ayloffe’s voice and manner had a certain grav¬ 
ity; his bright eyes were fixed on Dick’s face. 
His personality puzzled the latter a little for the 
extremely cultivated voice and choice of wt>cds 
349 


350 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


were accompanied by an almost commercial read¬ 
iness of manner. If he were English, he had 
evidently lived much out of England and in a 
tenser atmosphere. Plainly, however, there was 
no excuse for not complying, so Richard told all, 
concealing only the underlying cause of his quar¬ 
rel with Mr. Ventris. He hoped that Ayloffe’s 
reply would give him the address he longed for, 
but he was disappointed. After a considerable 
p^use, Ayloffe began on ancient history. 

“I suppose I need not tell you, Sir Richard, 
that during the last few years there had been a 
steady rise in the value of books, pictures and all 
art objects? Thousands of pounds have changed 
hands, while the demand in the States—espe¬ 
cially for fine illuminated manuscripts and pic¬ 
tures has continued to increase—but this you 
know?” 

“I’ve been hearing so at least.” 

“Certain firms have made enormous profits, 
among them A. Dulacq & Cie.—you have heard 
of them?” 

“I think so,” Dick recalled M. Charles’s talk 
at Monkton House, “in New York, aren’t they? 
picture dealers?” 

“Paintings and miniatures; illuminated manu¬ 
scripts particularly. I myself am a member of 
the firm,” Ayloffe proceeded, “which is headed by 
two Frenchmen, brothers. One, M. Jerome, 
lives in New York—the younger, M. Anatole, in 
Paris. We are not only dealers but authorities, 
experts; the last word comes from us in any 
question of genuineness. That’s what makes this 


THE KING STREET SPINK 


351 


whole affair so important. Well then. Two 
years ago we purchased three especially beauti¬ 
ful illuminated manuscripts which were put on 
the market in Paris by Sir Piers Monkton of 
Shank. There was no hesitation at all in buying 
from such a source and M. Anatole paid out close 
to £10,000, confident of a handsome profit in 
New York from clients and collectors there. You 
can imagine therefore his feelings when he re¬ 
ceived a letter from his brother casting grave 
doubt on the genuineness of two of these items 
and stating the opinion that they were modern 
work although on ancient materials. M. Anatole 
took the next steamer and on his arrival a con¬ 
ference of partners immediately took place, at 
which I was present. 

“I mustn’t take the time to give you M. Jer¬ 
ome’s evidence. It was extremely technical 
based on minute measurements of brushstrokes, 
on the faint traces of photography and on the 
chemistry of color. These last, although ground 
and prepared in the ancient way, showed evi¬ 
dence of recent composition. There were also 
one or two errors of detail such as a modern 
artist could hardly escape. Even M. Anatole, 
who had arrived in a state of indignation, was 
convinced. At the same time the work was so 
painstaking and so beautiful that it was not sur¬ 
prising it should have imposed on M. Anatole, 
and originally, as he supposed, on Sir Piers and 
his curator Mr. Charles Ventris.” 

Ayloffe paused. A cloud had settled on Dick’s 
face but he nodded the other to proceed. 


352 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


“A firm like Dulacq’s has no higher asset than 
its reputation. To sponsor a forgery meant 
bankruptcy in a year. The suspected manu¬ 
scripts were locked in the safe and I returned to 
England with M. Anatole for the purpose of 
making an investigation.” 

“Sir Piers was still alive then, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes: though not in good health.” 

“Did you talk to him?” 

“M. Anatole did at once. Of course he pooh- 
poohed the whole matter. He referred M. Ana¬ 
tole to Mr. Ventris, who was away at the time, 
but on my advice M. Anatole postponed that in¬ 
terview. He has still postponed it.” 

“What did you do then?” 

“What could we do? We let the matter rest. 
It was plain that if we were deceived, the owners 
of Shank were also. Mr. Ventris’s reputation 
as expert is higher than that of M. Jerome Du- 
lacq—and his authority in England is unques¬ 
tioned. Dulacq’s owed Shank many courtesies 
and not a few good customers. What action 
could we take which would not react on our¬ 
selves?” 

“I see.” 

“Last winter Sir Piers died. His heir we 
heard was determined on dispersing the col¬ 
lections. We began to have letters of enquiry, 
commissions. Collectors were on the qui vive 
at the chance of securing some of the famous ob¬ 
jects at Shank. M. Anatole’s uneasiness revived. 
If we were to be large buyers our doubts must be 
satisfied...... Suddenly a Claimant appeared 



THE KING STREET SPINK 


353 


backed by Mr. Ventris and Lady Monkton and 
accompanied by a new person on the scene—a 
man named Coles.” 

Dick smiled a thought contemptuously and 
Ayloffe saw it. Just as Sir Piers had smiled, with 
a twist of the peaked brows and a glance suggest¬ 
ing that foreigners were so apt to get excited...! 

“Don’t mistake me. The significance of Coles 
lay in this—that he was the first figure on the 
scene who might be definitely termed undesir¬ 
able.We had been moving in circles where 

suspicion was an absurdity—among persons of 
family and position—” 

“Was Lady Monkton a person of family?” 
asked Dick and Lancelot Ayloffe looked at him 
in surprise. Perhaps he was of more independ¬ 
ence than they had inferred. 

“I believe not,” he admitted. “She was of 
French origin and I won’t deny there had been 
stories—but still!—Coles was entirely a different 
matter. He had a definitely bad record and what 
was more important he had a friend who was 
butler at Shank, and against this friend, a man 
named Hays, there lay a charge, though never 
pushed, of forgery.” 

“You mean that Hays forged manuscripts!” 
Dick cried and was suddenly fixed by a recollec¬ 
tion of the butler standing by the desk he him¬ 
self had just quitted—of the silent, skilled ra¬ 
pidity in the movements of those long, fine 
fingers. Lance Ayloffe shrugged. 

“To that, I cannot answer yes or no. I can 
only say that the appearance of these two men 



354 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


gave so dark a color to the situation, that we felt 
the time had come for action. An expert detec¬ 
tive from the Government force at Washington 
was sent down to Shankmere, together with an 
assistant whom we had once employed at Du- 
lacq’s—poor fellow! You knew him as Paul 
Stern.” 

“You mean the burglar?” 

“Stern was no burglar,” replied the other, ris¬ 
ing and restlessly moving about the room; “His 
death is still involved in mystery which Scotland 
Yard has done little to clear up. We know that 
he must have been following some trail when 
he was discovered and shot. I have been to 
Scotland Yard myself but they have no evidence 
on which to make an arrest. Of course I thought 
it was Hays or Coles, but there’s no doubt that 
there’s an alibi, a definite alibi for both of these 
men. So what am I to think?” 

Dick shook his head. “I never believed the 
burglary story, despite the inquest. But I do 
know that there was a struggle of more than one 
man in that dark passage. I wish I had seen 
more.” 

“You kept nothing back then at the inquest?” 

“I had no reason. I told all I knew. But look 
here, Mr. Ayloffe,” Dick said with directness, 
“although I understand all you have told me, yet 
it doesn’t explain why I am shut up here, why 
Miss Lang disappeared overnight—and what it’s 
all about anyway?” 

Ayloffe had paused by the window, hands in 
pockets. He was evidently trying to arrange his 


THE KING STREET SPINK 


355 


ideas with the purpose of making a certain im¬ 
pression on Monkton. He answered patiently. 

‘Til have to ask you to let me tell that in my 
own way one thing at a time.” He came back to 
his chair, sat down again with an air of concen¬ 
tration. “After all,” he repeated, “I can only tell 
you what I know. The Chief said that your 
knowledge would be of great assistance to us. 
But for that, I think you would hardly have been 
taken into our confidence at this stage of the 
enquiry.” 

He was still wondering a little what sort of a 
person this young man might be, who looked so 
like, yet so unlike, the late Monkton of Shank. 
Richard nodded him to proceed. 

“To take up these events in order brings me 
then to the news which reached us from France 
not long after the mysterious death of poor Stern. 
The discovery of the Canticles was announced 
and its proposed sale at a high figure. The Chief 
left for Paris at once and after some trouble got 
a look at it. You can guess the result.” 

Dick said in a lowered voice: “I feared it was 
not genuine—although it was so beautiful!” 

Ayloffe struck the arm of his chair. “That’s 
it!” he cried explosively, “it’s too beautiful to be 
anything but genuine. If the Canticles is a forg¬ 
ery—it’s a superb forgery! I own that M. Jerome 
has not convinced me—he can’t explain the mir¬ 
acle of its perfection! And yet! What caused 
your own doubt?” 

“The olive-tree,” said Dick slowly, “in the 


356 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

fourth miniature. My father’s Virgil had the 
same.” 

“Ah,” said Ayloffe in another voice, “the Virgil 
you have in your bag there? The Chief was 
right then—you were in danger!” 

He paused thinking deeply and both were si¬ 
lent. By tacit agreement the question of the 
Canticles was not reopened between them. To 
that beauty Ayloffe felt a certain loyalty and he 
could not question it further—he preferred to 
turn to the events of the strange drama they 
were discussing. 

“Meanwhile another investigator had been 
starting on her own account, I mean, of course, 
Miss Lang. Now Miss Lang has not yet told us 
quite all she knows, but her evidence further im¬ 
plicates the household at Shank. She says that 
once her suspicions were aroused she resigned 
her position and prepared to leave Shank. The 
night after she had done this, she discovered a 
very cunning attempt to discredit her, by hiding 
in her trunk one of the gems of the collection— 
the Cellini box known as the Mary Casket. This 
troubled and frightened her so much that she 
opened a letter a friend had given her and by its 
advice, visited the roof by the same route you 
have just described to me. The charred fragment 
you read was evidently the same which guided 
Miss Lang. But the little room revealed more to 
her than to you. Among the piles of parchment 
was a sheet with a torn cover and it suggested the 
fragment of parchment which had been found 
lying by Stern’s dead body. She hurried down 


THE KING STREET SPINK 


357 


to her room where she kept the piece, compared 
the two and found that they fitted. At once, 
(very recklessly it seems to me) she returned to 
the roof in search of further evidence. Unfor¬ 
tunately, this second time she became aware that 
she was being followed and her return to the 
staircase was cut off. She’s a brave girl, Miss 
Lang, and it took pluck to descend by that ladder 
between the chimneys in the dark! She started 
to run across the Park but her pursuer was too 
quick and struck at her head with a heavy stick. 
The blow missed, but the clever creature 
fell down as if she had been stunned and lay with 
closed eyes—she owes her life to her quick wit 
at any rate.” 

The narrator discreetly looked out of the win¬ 
dow and Richard became aware of his own voice 
enquiring steadily: 

“Was she hurt ?” . 

“Owing to her quickness—no. The man bent 
over her while she lay still, moaning once or 
twice. The darkness aided her ruse but of course 
it made her unable to identify her assailant. He 
tried to lift her but she was too heavy so he set 
off toward the Great House plainly in search of 
help. When he had gone, she got to her feet and 
made her way to the nearest farm where she 
crawled into the open window of a shed over the 
hen-house. There was straw in the shed and she 
rested there till day; when she made her way by 
slow degrees to another railway station beyond 
Shankmere and so reached London in safety.” 

“Where is she now?” 


358 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Mr. Ayloffe looked surprised. “I thought you 
knew. She and the Chief left yesterday on a 
motor-trip to Scotland.” 

A light broke over Monkton. “The Chief 
then?” 

“You knew her by her name, I suppose. Mrs. 
Byrd.” 

“Mrs. Byrd—that nice grey-haired woman—a 
detectiveY’ 

“Yes: one of the foremost in her own line. Up 
to the present,” Ayloffe added, “she considers 
the case a failure, she tells me. But she has not 
given it up. What we lack is proof.” 

“ Proof ! And Miss Lang attacked and nearlv 
killed!” 

“True. But Miss Lang cannot say who at¬ 
tacked her. She had to keep her eyes shut, you 
know. The fragment of parchment is not enough 
evidence to arrest anyone—even if she had it 
still, and she hasn’t. Suspicion centres upon 
Shank, but against whom are we to proceed? 
Remember, both Hays and Coles have an alibi 
on the evening Stern was killed. They were 
drinking together at the Spotted Doe at Endwise 
as the landlord and others can testify. Hays 
was absent at the Great House dinner because 
his mistress was in town.” 

Dick remembered what he had himself heard 
and knew this to be true. 

“But it must be Hays who attacked Miss Lang! 
Can’t you arrest him for that ?” 

“Don’t you see Sir Richard, that Miss Lang 
must give a reason? The whole matter then 


THE KING STREET SPINK 


359 


comes out—all privacy is at an end if that occurs. 
What will happen to Dulacq’s in that event? 
With these important sales coming off at 
Christie’s during the next few weeks? No: no! 
That is what M. Jerome has told Mrs. Byrd in 
the most emphatic way. There is to be no pub¬ 
licity while any doubt remains or any chance of 
retaliation that would react upon our firm. Why, 
the mere hint of such a thing will kill the market 
for months! And besides—” 

He left the sentence unfinished and Dick knew 
why. There was one corner of the affair into 
which neither of them liked to look and when 
Ayloffe spoke again it was to repeat: 

“The whole matter is too serious—that is what 
Mrs. Byrd feels. She must have more to work 
on. That is why your aid has been asked, Sir 
Richard, and I fear she is going to be disap¬ 
pointed that you can tell us so little.” 

“Mr. Ayloffe, whom does she suspect?” 

“Honestly,” Ayloffe answered, “I don’t know.” 

In his turn, Monkton rose and strolled over to 
the window. His face was absorbed: it showed, 
however, no loss of composure, no trace of weak¬ 
ness or shrinking. From where he stood he be¬ 
gan to speak, over his shoulder and without look¬ 
ing at his companion. 

“I think I understand the complication of your 
position. You have made it very clear that Du- 
lacq’s cannot proceed to bring charges without 
proof because they may ruin their own business 
by so doing. Am I right?” 

“That’s the fact—in a nutshell.” 


360 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

“Your position is plain. But mine—I wonder 
if Mrs. Byrd has not been thinking of that ? My 
claim to Shank is based largely on letters pre¬ 
sented by this man Coles and on the testimony 
of his relative. Well, how does it strike you, Mr. 
Ayloffe—how would you feel in my place ?” 

He spoke quietly, but the other sprang to his 
feet. “This is dreadful, Sir Richard! I did not 
mean—no doubt of your honesty ever—” 

“It isn’t my honesty that is in question. I was 
wholly ignorant that any claim existed up to a 
few months ago. What you tell me is as new to 
me as the claim was.” 

“Men like Mr. Scrope, your solicitor, like Sir 
John Flippin the K.C., are not to be caught nap¬ 
ping. They would not stand for you, Sir Rich¬ 
ard, unless your claim were well-founded.” 

“I wish we could talk to Sir John.” 

“Unfortunately, he is still in Norway and 
doesn’t return till next week. I called up his 
house this morning. But I insist,” Ayloffe re¬ 
peated vehemently, surprised and troubled by the 
expression upon Monkton’s face, “that this as¬ 
pect of the matter never crossed my thoughts— 
no, nor the Chief’s.” 

“I am not so sure.” 

Richard appeared to be turning over some idea 
in his mind and his face had taken on an absent 
look, as of one making unspoken decisions. Ay¬ 
loffe talked on, giving his views as to the neces¬ 
sity of staying under cover at present—but in 
a short time he saw that the other was not lis¬ 
tening. 


THE KING STREET SPINK 


361 


“All that is unimportant,” Dick cut him short 
by announcing, “What is vital to me is the truth 
—Am I Monkton of Shank—Am I?” 

“The people who say you are—Lady Monkton, 
Mr. Ventris—do you not believe in them?” 

“And Mr. Coles—do you believe in him?” 

The dry finality of his tone caused Ayloffe to 
stare—it was not that of a boy at all. 

“I can’t deny—” 

“You can’t deny suspicion of forgery, murder 
and an attack on an innocent girl—those you 
can’t deny. Well, they are enough!” 

It was odd that Ayloffe too had thought Dick 
Monkton more docile than he proved to be. He 
foresaw complications in the young man’s atti¬ 
tude, argued with him on the need for patience 
and passivity, for the moment, but argued in 
vain. 

“You see,” Dick said at length, “I have an 
idea. There does exist one person I can talk 
with. That I must do immediately. It may lead 
to a discovery. Let me think it over here in quiet 
awhile and when you come back, I will tell you 
what I have decided.” 

With this Ayloffe, though a good deal puzzled, 
was forced to be satisfied. 


CHAPTER XXXI 

CHINOISERIES 

A FAIR summer day had been followed, as so 
often at this season, by a disquieting heavi¬ 
ness and heat. Over Shank the air fell lifeless; 
the deer under the trees drooped their heads, the 
doves in the eaves scarcely stirred, and the patter 
of drops from the fountain sounded nervously 
distinct. When Mr. Ventris’s chauffeur brought 
the car round to the Guard-house, he wiped his 
brow and wondered why his master chose this 
day to go to London. 

Mr. Ventris did not keep him waiting long. He 
made his appearance, dressed with his usual care 
and with more than his usual touch of theatrical 
effect, for he had thrown about his thin shoulders 
an ample cape which fell into sweeping folds. As 
he came out on the flags, Gapper approached with 
the mail. Mr. Ventris took the letters from him, 
glanced them through thrust several of them into 
his coat-pocket and handed the rest to Gapper to 
take into the house. Among them, the old gate¬ 
keeper had noticed one for Sir Richard and two 
362 


CHIMOISERIES 


363 


for Miss Lang, but they were not among those 
which Mr. Ventris had returned to him. 

Cloak adjusted, M. Charles made ready to 
start. He did not often drive himself, but today, 
he waved his chauffeur aside and took his place at 
the wheel. The car moved away, gathering 
speed and the driver did not look back. 

Denise had not come down to the courtyard to 
see him off. She had remained upstairs in her 
boudoir and her state was one M. Charles did not 
like to think of. Of late, Denise had allowed her 
nerves to get the better of her with the result 
that he was beginning himself to feel almost 
unnerved. The scene she had just made him was 
absurd and tragic: she had acted as though this 
visit to London were an eternal parting. The 
frowning pallor of his face stiffened at the re¬ 
collection of her wild words and wilder eye.. . 
Heavens! he had thought that such scenes were 
over for them years ago! 

That hot-headed young fool of a Diccon, what 
an obstinate lad it was! Despite his anger a 
faint smile came into M. Charles’s eyes. Well, 
fortune favored the young and he had got clean 
away after all. There seemed no question but 
that they two must make it up, somehow. His 
own judgment had been at fault, he had handled 
the youth badly. Opposition was never the way 
to handle a Monkton, he ought to have remem¬ 
bered how he got his way with Piers.But 

the boy had irritated him with his quixotic folly 
—and after this last year no wonder he was less 
of a philosopher than formerly. And what a 




364 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


young ass! Miss Lang indeed.! The name 

brought other thoughts and M. Charles smiled 
no longer. His chauffeur, sitting beside him, was 
puzzled at the speed with which he took the high 
road, but when he glanced at the concentrated 
face, set mouth and pin-point pupils he dared not 
protest. No one employed by M. Charles ven¬ 
tured to protest when he looked like that. 

Town was reached; M. Charles alighted at 
Monkton House and dismissed the car. After 
some time there, closeted with Andrews and 
writing letters, he emerged again—without the 
cloak this time, looked up and down the street 
and strolled into St. James's. Here he picked 
up a taxi, which drove him to the Sloane Square 
Station where he took the Underground to West 
Kensington, and walked thence to an address in 
Perham Road owned by a Mrs. McNeil. His 
manner as he traversed these respectable but 
dingy precincts resembled that which may be 
seen in a cat when he walks along a back-fence— 
it was both business-like and condescending... 

M. Charles remained at the house in Perham 
Road for more than an hour. When he came out 
his manner had relaxed and was more at ease. 
He returned to Dover Street and there is no 
doubt that when he stood once more on the 
pavement of Mayfair he gave a gentle sigh of 
relief. Remaining errands were pleasanter and 
he lingered over them. His tailor was called on, 
in anticipation of autumn country visits, and the 
exact shades of leaf browns and delicate mauves 
and blues which must be sought for in matching 



CHIMOISERIES 


365 


ties and so on occupied an agreeable hour in 
Bond Street. He lunched at his Club, which was 
empty enough. Few people were left in town at 
this season, but he met a friend. Lady Belphegor 
(of Baal Castle, finest collection of armor in Eu¬ 
rope) and had tea with her. After tea he went 
back to his apartment and rang up Denise Monk- 
ton, speaking to her softly and reassuringly. 
When he replaced the telephone, the faint frown 
had returned to his forehead and he sat for some 
minutes over a cigarette. 

Then, recalling a question which must be 
settled at Christie’s, he strolled out again and 
turned into King Street. But he didn’t go to 
Christie’s that afternoon. The sight of a shop 
awning far down the pavement recalled to him 
something he had read in a letter he found await¬ 
ing him in town and he hurried on and turned 
into Spink’s. M. Charles had an idea. 

The hour was getting on to closing time; the 
shopman was thinking about the shutters, not 
expecting a customer on so hot an afternoon, un¬ 
less it should be a stray American, who were 
notoriously energetic and troublesome when 
everybody else was out of town. But this exquis¬ 
ite and distinguished gentleman, so finished from 
silver head to slim feet, was evidently a Person¬ 
age, not a tourist. So the shopman summoned 
Lancelot Ayloffe. 

Ayloffe knew who it was at once. He had seen 
M. Charles many times though he had never 
talked with him. He came forward with a proper 
deference, but with a thrill of excitement. What 


366 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

did the visit portend ? Was it a move in the game 
or was it possible that M. Charles had come to 
lay his cards on the table—? And the Chief out 
of reach! The visitor spoke, in his suave, musical 
voice which was always a surprise at first. Ay- 
loffe could hear the level beat of his own per¬ 
functory accents as he said, “Quite so, sir,” open¬ 
ing a vitrine meanwhile to show the customer a 
Renaissance pendant of which he had enquired 
the price. But M. Charles took small interest, 
as he explained, in the late Renaissance gold 
work. He was on the look-out for chinoiseries , 
really fine jades and crystals. Aylofife ushered 
him into the inner room, spread a bit of velvet 
between them on the table and drew nearer a 
jewel-cabinet. There was not the space of two 
feet between him and M. Charles. 

“That’s a lovely thing, indeed.” The custom¬ 
er’s long fingers played with the pendant. It 
was lovely: fei t’sui, of brilliancy almost equa¬ 
ling emerald; hung on black silk cord and sefcin 
diamonds. “Three hundred pounds, you say?” 

“Guineas, sir—or this,” and Ayloffe laid on the 
velvet strip a string of similar quality in carven 
beads—“at £350.” 

M. Charles disquisited gently and melodiously 
awhile on the new vogue of these ornaments. 
Meanwhile, his glance flitted about, lighting now 
here, now there. It was very quiet in the inner 
room. Suddenly his attention returned to the 
grave face of the salesman. 

“Surely I have seen you before?” 

“Very often,” Ayloffe smilingly responded. 



CHIMOISERIES 


367 


“You know me then?” 

“Who, in the collector’s world, does not know 
M. Charles?” 

The other smiled also, gratified. “I remember 
now/’ he said, “We met at Dulacq’s in Paris. 
Some years ago, I think. They exhibited some 
illuminated manuscripts, which chance to be a 
hobby of mine.” He spoke with a modest con¬ 
descension as though he were telling the other 
something he did not know. Aylofife merely 
bowed. 

“I will take the pendant.” 

He must, M. Charles reflected, make his peace 
with Denise and in all these years he had never 
given her a jewel. She could put it away until she 
wore colors again. 

“Since you have honored us, let me have the 
pleasure of showing you some recent acquisi¬ 
tions,” Aylofife said quickly as the customer rose 
and he snapped on a light over a cabinet. M. 
Charles paused: the Egyptian figurines thus re¬ 
vealed were remarkably fine—an Anubis mounted 
in a black shrine immensely interested him. He 
began to talk about Charles Newton as he ex¬ 
amined it. Then Aylofife turned him toward a 
small group of bronzes. All the while he won¬ 
dered. Was M. Charles off his guard? 

“Has Sir Richard Monkton seen these? He told 
me he was coming in.” 

Meditatively while he spoke, M. Charles con¬ 
sidered the votive bronze. 

“We have not, I think, had the pleasure—” 

“He’ll probably appear in a day or two. These 


368 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


things fascinate him. When he does, ring me 
up and I shall tell him what to look at.” 

Skilfully, M. Charles replaced the bronze 
among others on the shelf. Ayloffe replied that 
he should be delighted. The remark steadied him 
and he drew breath. The shop-man hovered 
about looking sulkier and sulkier for it was past 
closing-time and the customer showed no signs 
of departure. Instead he had fallen into playful 
talk about Dulacq’s and sales in Paris, past and 
to come. Whenever the current showed signs 
of slackening, Ayloffe gave it some new and flat¬ 
tering impetus. He reminded M. Charles of his 
cleverness in discovering the Treyze Hystoires.. 

Then. 

“We do not here, as you know, deal in manu¬ 
scripts,” he said, moving to a table-drawer, “but 
one or two of our clients still ask us to keep on 
the look-out. Yesterday I picked this up quite 
unexpectedly. What do you think of it ?” 

He laid the Virgil with the silver clasps be¬ 
tween them on the table and he was careful not 
to look at the other as he did so. Thus he felt 
rather than saw that, with the first glance at the 
volume, M. Charles pointed like a dog. Ayloffe 
ran on, bending over the manuscript. “I found 
it in Southampton—in an old shop there. The 
owner knew enough to ask a good price. The 
temptation, sir,” he concluded with a pleasant 
little laugh, “is to ask you to tell me how much 
I have been cheated!” 

M. Charles picked tip the Virgil, set eyeglass 



CHIMOISERIES 


369 


in eye and looked it through. No page quivered 
in his steady hand. 

“You people always think that if you know 
about one thing, you know about another/' he 
observed good-naturedly. “I've spent my life 
over manuscripts and even I get taken in at times. 
This is fair—a good, but not a remarkable speci¬ 
men. What is your price?" 

“We purchased it for a customer, sir, I am not 
sure—” 

“I rather like the initials: it would fit into my 
collection.Would two hundred pounds do?" 

Ayloffe respectfully repeated that the Virgil 
had been a commission—he would ask his client 
—M. Charles would readily see that he was bound 
but—? 

Meanwhile M. Charles kept turning the pages; 
but what he saw thereon was merely a row of 
figures. The pendant had been an extravagance 
—but this! Of course, there was the great sale 
coming off in a few weeks when large sums were 
possible; but M. Charles knew enough about 
payments to know that when possible they were 
unlikely, when probable they were only possible; 
when certain next Monday they were likely to oc¬ 
cur next month.And why should he buy 

this after all.? Southampton was on the 

railroad which ran past Shank. 

He laid it down. “You might let me know," 
he said putting up his eyeglasses, “what your 
client thinks of the offer. Although I am not dis¬ 
posed to go higher—as a matter of fact I am 
selling rather than buying just now, as you may 






370 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


have heard. Do you think the Southampton 
place had anything else worth looking at?” 

“I am not expert enough, sir, to know,” Ay- 
loffe answered him deferentially, “he had a num¬ 
ber of old things and he seemed rather ignorant 
about them.” 

“Quite so. Do you mind giving me the name ?” 

Ayloffe gave it readily: replaced the Virgil, 
locked the drawer, and bowed his distinguished 
client into King street. As M. Charles hurried 
off, Ayloffe saw him looking at his watch. He 
himself lingered but an instant to give the order 
for closing, then upstairs, three steps at a time to 
Dick Monkton’s room. 

“I’ve got you your chance,” he said gravely as 
he entered, “M. Charles has been here—on your 
trail, plain enough. Oh he’s a wonder—what a 
voice, what a personality! But I’ve sent him off 
on a wild-goose chase to Southampton, which will 
take him all of twenty-four hours, and if you 
wish to get the night train to Scotland, it’s now 
or never, my lad!” 


CHAPTER XXXII 

LANGFORD’S 

S TONEHAVEN lies in a cleft of the hills front¬ 
ing the North Sea. The town is well named 
with its stone houses and stony streets, its harbor 
filled with fishing-boats returned from an ocean 
grey as granite. Clean winds blow through it 
adding a tang of salt to the lingering smell of 
hides and fish. Beyond the town, the road climbs 
over treeless hills toward a wide and smiling 
country, upon which, on a clear morning the 
purple highlands look down. Scotland here— 
about is dauntless and romantic and keeps its 
outland look even in the sunniest valleys. 

Along the unsheltered road walked Dick 
Monkton, newly set down from Aberdeen. He 
looked about him as he went, but without plea¬ 
sure, more as one seeking an address than as a 
traveller in a new country. His mind was busy 
among the various recent events and their discus¬ 
sion in his long talks with Ayloffe. These talks 
had taken a friendly and unfettered turn, for Ay¬ 
loffe had been quick to see the advantages accru¬ 
ing to his own position from an ally like Monkton, 
371 


372 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

whether of Shank or no. If he were Sir Richard 
then his influence would be all powerful for the 
future. If not, if he were only the victim of fraud, 
then that circumstance provided a practical light¬ 
ning-rod to carry off the storm. The case would 
be cause celebre and under the shadow of its im¬ 
portance, matters concerning Dulacq’s might 
well be quietly settled in the right way. The 
greater wrong would obscure the less. Dulacq’s 
would have an opportunity to see that the forgers, 
whoever they were should not repeat the offence; 
the suspected manuscripts might be privately ac¬ 
quired and disposed of and the tide which bore 
the spoils of the old world to the shores of the 
new would have no serious ebb. Ayloffe there¬ 
fore was deeply concerned in the truth. 

As for Monkton himself, he was full of pain 
and doubt; the bitterness of suspicion; incredul¬ 
ity, which returned hope to him at intervals and 
above all the longing for Jean. He had taken 
train for Scotland with the determination 7 to see 
and cross-examine the old nurse Jean had told 
him of, and who, he felt convinced, was probably 
the one witness now living to the past situation 
at Shank. For even if “Biddy,” as Jean called 
her, had left her service there before those last 
months of tragedy, yet at least the knowledge she 
possessed must be of a nature to throw light upon 
the story of Lucy Monkton. 

Langford’s was a mile or so outside of Stone¬ 
haven—a white, low-browed building, half-cot¬ 
tage, half-farmhouse, with small windows and a 
steep roof, with rambling outhouses and neat 


LANGFORD’S 


373 


yard while all about it, growing up against the 
walls and gates, were borders of brilliant flowers. 
John Lang, the historian, who was born in Aber¬ 
deen, had inherited the house, its policies and 
plantations, which he loved with a great love. 
In later life he had been able to add and improve 
and although of course obliged to live in Edin¬ 
burgh during term-time, he always regarded 
Langford's as home. Hither, after his death, his 
widow took up her residence, living quietly, much 
liked and getting many letters from Jean at 
Shank. 

A country girl admitted the visitor not without 
astonishment—for at Langford's strangers were 
rare. Monkton was shown into a homely and 
rather shabby sitting-room, with a bow-window 
which opened upon the drive-way. He had but a 
few minutes to look about him—there were pic¬ 
tures and weeklies and reviews as well as books, 
while a door gave glimpses of a shelf-lined study 
with its desk lovingly ordered and looking as 
though the owner had just stepped out of 
it for an hour or so. But he was not kept waiting 
long—his name brought Mrs. Lang down in a 
trice. 

"“It will be Jean you're wanting to see I'm 
thinking, Sir Richard," was her greeting as she 
hurried toward him across the room, “and I'm so 
sorry! but she's not here yet." 

She was very attractive. One's first feeling was 
that she was on the whole more attractive than 
her daughter, although she was much more de¬ 
cidedly Scots in accent and in appearance. Mrs. 


374 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Lang was not tall, with thick, curly hair, once 
darker than Jean's, now grey; an active and rest¬ 
less vigor of step and movement and a sensitive 
mouth. Her eyes were true brown, unlike Jean's. 
At the moment they looked rather worried—not 
knowing what this visit might portend. Jeanie’s 
letter from York had certainly been unusually 
brief. 

“You've heard from Miss Lang of course— 
lately, I mean," was all Monkton could think of 
to say at the moment. 

“Ay—I'd a letter from York. She's motoring 
here on her holiday—with her friend an Amer¬ 
ican lady. They ought to be coming in by to¬ 
morrow or next day: 'twill be by way of Perth, 
I fancy—But there's nothing wrong you're hid¬ 
ing, Sir Richard? You're not bringing me ill 
news?" She spoke in a soft voice, but her eyes 
were anxious and he hastened to reassure her. 
He knew of nothing wrong: he had hoped to find 
Miss Lang at home as he had a favor to ask of her 
and her mother and it involved something—He 
didn't know if Mrs. Lang had heard—? 

The embarrassment and constraint in his 
speech and manner showed Mrs. Lang that his 
errand concerned his own affairs and not her's or 
her daughter’s. Relieved, although still serious, 
she motioned him to a chair and perched on an¬ 
other herself near-by. It was plain to see that 
she never sat on any chair for very long at a 
time, and that her walk was less of a walk than 
a series of short runs. 


LANGFORD’S 


375 


“Perhaps you have heard about my claim to 
the baronetcy of Shank ?" 

Immediately her face cleared. 

“To be sure. A wonderfully romantic story— 
Jean told us; and we read it in the papers, too. 
You're the fortunate youth, I'm thinking!" She 
smiled at him but inwardly her thoughts ran: 
“What a troubled and bewildered laddie it is! 
I’m wondering if there's anything in it?" 

Evidently it was best to be open with Mrs. 
Lang. She had the look of one who has lived 
long with scholars—a look that sees below the 
surface and knows that what has been once is like 
to be again. So Dick told her simply that he was 
anxious to obtain every possible evidence in re¬ 
gard to the last year of Lucy Monkton's life— 
that he had learned from Miss Lang about the 
presence in her mother's house of a servant who 
had been at Shank during that year and who 
might therefore furnish him with valuable infor¬ 
mation relating to the circumstances of Lady 
Monkton's—his mother's, marriage and death. 

“You will be meaning Biddy, no doubt," was 
Mrs. Lang's comment: “Yes. Jean wrote me a 
letter about asking Biddy particulars of that past 
time—the wedding and all. I did what I could 
and answered her. But my letter must have 
crossed her's, telling me of her leaving Shank on 
her holiday. It was a thought sudden, Jean's va¬ 
cation—now, wasn't it ? She had not expected to 
have it so soon?" 

Dick said he believed it was: somehow he felt 
that Jean would prefer to tell her mother herself 


376 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


about the circumstances under which she left 
Shank. 

“I wrote what I could. But Biddy, poor soul, 
has been very bad with influenza and it was hard 
for her. Truth to tell, Sir Richard, we've never 
quite known what it was that chanced to Biddy 
when she was in service at that Great House—It 
must have been something-—I've my own ideas; 
but I've not talked of them." 

“Did she come direct to you from there?" 

“No: no indeed. Not for three or four years. 
She was long, long in my house ere we even knew 
she had had a place at Shank. She married, you 
see, shortly afterwards, a foreigner, French I'm 
thinking—and he was killed in an accident a year 
later. Biddy had a friend in Edinburgh—she 
came there in search of a place and so she came to 
me. Jeanie was but a wee baby and Biddy was 
aye fond of children." 

“And you say you have your own idea as to 
what happened?" 

“It was a fright, Sir Richard, whatever caused 
it. Biddy was frightened at Shank. She's fright¬ 
ened now to think of it. She hates the place. 
She cried when Jean would go there. She said it 
was unlucky. She never knew, poor dear, that it 
was her own tales of the beauty and glory of the 
collection, of the gauds and the pictures and the 
ancientry that made Jean fair wild to go!" A 
smile flickered into Mrs. Lang's eyes. “Jeanie 
would be like that," she added. 

“And you never questioned her?" 

“Who would be questioning her? It was her 


LANGFORD’S 


377 


own business. She did her work and she was 
faithful. When trouble came Biddy stayed by. 
Who would be questioning her?” 

“But the other day you did?” 

“Truly. I did as Jean asked—though it was 
hard. She had been so very, very ill and she is 
so weak still. But I asked her if she remembered 
hearing aught of Sir Piers’ wedding the young 
lady and what his bride wore. And she said none 
knew better than she, who was there herself and 
dressed her—putting her hat and cloak upon her. 
For Miss Vignoles (so Biddy said) would not be 
dressed as brides are in white with a veil. She 
was freakish and would wear naught but her 
travelling-dress, despite what they could do.” 

Dick heard what he expected to hear and stif¬ 
fened. “She said no more?” he asked further: 
and Mrs. Lang shook her head. 

“That look came again into her face that al¬ 
ways comes when we mention that time and she 
cried out to me: 'Why do I keep bothering her 
about those dreadful days which she so longed to 
forget?’ So of course I did my best to soothe the 
poor soul.” 

In his absorption, Monkton rose and walked 
over to the window, looking out upon a picture 
imprinted ever after on his memory in clear 
bright, banal colors. The clipped circle of turf, 
the yellow and scarlet flowers in the beds, the 
flowering shrubs against the wall, the line of 
trees rising above them—. He looked and looked 
yet what he saw was something quite different— 
the face of a young, tormented woman, stum- 


378 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


bling, running wildly across the Park away from 
the towers of Henry VIII with their gilded vanes 
and carrying an infant in her arms. 

“I must see her, Mrs. Lang. What you tell me 
makes it an absolute necessity that I should see 
her.” 

“The doctor says she’s very weak—very weak 
still,” Mrs. Lang replied doubtfully, “and I’m not 
liking to distress her, Sir Richard.” 

“I’m afraid—I feel I ought to tell you, the law 
is likely to do it if I don’t. And I shall not ques¬ 
tion her about anything that concerns herself,” 
he protested, “she is safe from me as far as that 
goes—. Surely, surely it were better she an¬ 
swered my few questions quietly now rather than 
have to do so to the police later—because, Mrs. 
Lang, don’t you see? the matter is vital. There 
are witnesses whose evidence must be supported. 
Biddy may know nothing and I shall in that case 
protect her. But what Biddy knows may decide 
whether I am or am not Monkton of Shank.” 

He was likeable, Mrs. Lang thought, and her 
reluctance could not stand against his earnestness 
and his need. 

“I will have to see what I can do,” was her 
conclusion, “wait here, Sir Richard, and I will re¬ 
turn.” 

She was gone a long While; nearly an hour in 
which Richard’s suspense seemed to hang like a 
veritable oppression upon the atmosphere — a 
heavy weight which even hope could not lift. 
After awhile he heard her step but when she re¬ 
entered the room it seemed to him that her re- 


LANGFORD’S 


379 


luctance had been deepened and intensified, trans¬ 
ferred in fact from the side of Biddy to himself. 
Her face was very grave. “You had best come 
upstairs,” was all she said and turned abruptly so 
that he should follow. They climbed two flights 
in silence and then with her hand on a knob, she 
spoke. 

“My dear boy,” said she and there was a new 
note in her voice, “be gentle with her—be careful 
—and oh! don’t be harsh with her!” 

At the words she opened the door of a small, 
neat chamber, its occupant lying in bed under an 
old-fashioned counterpane and a gay little bunch 
of marigolds on the window-sill. This was the 
first thing Richard saw. The second was the 
face of a woman, bloodless and strained, whose 
eyes were turned with an awful apprehension to¬ 
ward the door. He went in. 

Mrs. Lang shut the door after him and went 
downstairs again with her rapid step. She 
paused at the entrance to the house; looked up 
and down the drive with a concentration of in¬ 
tense anxiety. She went into the sitting-room, 
emptied the vase of flowers and forgot to put in 
fresh ones. She hastened to the kitchen and 
spoke, rather sharply, to Ellen about the dinner. 
She went into the study, picked up her knitting 
and knit a row furiously. She often did this in 
those dead days, when John was just finishing a 
page and she could hardly wait to speak to him. 
But now even knitting hardly answered. She laid 
it down and listened. Silence. 

Mrs. Lang was a good woman, though not es- 


380 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


pecially devout. But at this moment all her being 
was centred on that interview and it took on an 
intensity to her mind which was very like prayer. 
She found herself praying to the click of her 
needles, praying and listening. For a long time 
nothing happened, till the shadows began to walk 
across the grass plot and late sunbeams parted 
the curtains of the southerly window. 

When she heard footsteps descending she was 
in the hall in a flash and uplifted a quivering face 
to Monkton which he saw as through a mist. He 
moved deliberately; he carried his head high, but 
when she gave him her hand he gripped and clung 
to it. 

“My poor lad!” was all she could say and drew 
him into the study, which seemed to her the fit¬ 
ting place. 

“It’s hard luck, isn’t it?” he asked her. 

“ ’Tis infamous—but oh! take heart. Believe 
an old woman—there are better things!” 

He laughed a little. That seemed to him almost 
funny: that she should think there were better 
things! But she was going on in an accent of 
hurrying sympathy. “I feared it—I won’t deny 
I feared something wrong from the first... .She 
had seemed so terribly upset by the papers when 
they first told about you. She seemed to brood 
—the doctor said she had something on her mind. 
But perhaps there’s a doubt still?” 

He shook his head. There was no doubt. 
What had come to him in that room had been 
gasped out in the deadly certainty of terror. 

“And what are you going to do now?” 


LANGFORD’S 


381 


Richard was just about to answer her that he 
hardly knew; that he must think; when both of 
them were struck by an unexpected and signifi¬ 
cant sound—that of a motor entering the drive. 
The dread of some stranger coming in to find 
him looking like that, gave her a sudden motherly 
impulse of protection and she drew him quickly 
from the window. But not before Dick had seen. 
The motor had stopped before the house and a 
man was getting out. There was no mistaking 
that distinguished bearing and the long, graceful 
cloak. 

Luckily, Mrs. Lang was quick of eye and act. 
She sprang forward to shut the door between the 
study and the drawing-room and in another in¬ 
stant, while the door-bell was ringing in the 
house, she had unlocked the long window that 
opened on the back garden. 

“You can reach the high-road by yon path 
across the policy,” she told him. “Go, go quickly,” 
and then she added with a twist in her smile, 
“God be with you!” 

Dick stood an instant; memory thrilled 
through him of a face between two tall candle- 
flames. He feared for her. 

“You don’t mind talking to him?” he hesitated, 
“you don’t mind?” 

“Why would I be afraid of him?” she cried; 
“I’m not afraid!” 

She gave him a little pat on the shoulder and 
then stooped and flew like a bird toward the 
other room. He waited until the door had closed 
upon her and then let himself out of the window 
on the garden path, into the cool afternoon. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

DUNOTTAR CASTLE 

W HEN he reached the high-road, Dick me¬ 
chanically turned his steps toward the 
town. He walked quickly, not that there was any 
reason for haste but simply to ease the tension of 
his thoughts. These were wholly cast back into 
the room he had just quitted. What was that 
white-faced woman gasping to Charles Ventris 
and what was Charles Ventris saying to Mrs. 
Lang? 

The afternoon enfolded him with soft air and 
a mild glow of declining sunshine. Light wind 
rustled the hedges and touched his hot face with 
its cool current. Dick mended his pace, the town 
was near, in the hollow below, and he wanted to 
seek refuge in its lonelier bye-ways. The inter¬ 
view at Langford's was not likely to be pro¬ 
longed: M. Charles would be returning and oh! 

he could not now meet M. Charles.The very 

thought brought pain. 

Descending into the clean, stony street, he 
found himself at harbor level, and stood for a 
moment to watch the flapping fisher-boats and 

382 



DUNOTTAR CASTLE 


383 


the slow, sturdy men moving about many tasks. 
There was a lifted horizon smudged with purple, 
that betokened wind, and already the hair of the 
children playing on the quay was stirred and 

blown.He must not pause long, for fear— 

The curved bridge led the road away to mount 
another hill beside the sea. 

What a horrible, horrible fiasco! One must 
look it in the face—one must realize—how wan¬ 
tonly Destiny had played with him. He supposed 
that they had fancied him a mere nullity who, 
once entangled, would never dare to assert him¬ 
self, who would never resist the glories of the 
world they had shown him. Even now, with 
Biddy’s signed statement in his pocket, Dick 
knew perfectly well that he and M. Charles could 
bluff the matter through. Biddy would never 
speak: fear held Biddy by the throat and she 
asked only to have that grip relaxed. No doubt 
M. Charles was seeking for him everywhere, M. 
Charles with all the tempting power of person¬ 
ality which he knew so well how to use, with his 
golden voice, his distinction, his affection. In 
this heightened moment of illumination, Dick 
could see it all so clearly! Even the last great gift 
might be thrown into the scale, the way to joy 
might be made smooth: the way to Jean. Oh he 
could see it all! 

And on the other side? Why, his situation 
was desperate, he was in plain words, ruined. The 
clothes on his back—the contents of the suitcase 
he had checked at the station, constituted prac¬ 
tically everything he had in the world. He was 



384 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


in a distant country: his money spent; and worse 
than friendless since he bore upon him the stigma 
of fraud. Even if he could, as he hoped, convince 
a man like Flippin of his innocence, could point 
back to his own hesitation and reluctancy even, 
in snatching at the fruits of his claim, yet the 
world at large would know him only as another 
spurious Claimant, the central figure in a criminal 
conspiracy. The fact that he himself had un¬ 
veiled this conspiracy, and refused—as he knew 
he did refuse—to profit by it, would not modify 
harsh opinion to any real extent. The Consulate 
might ship him home for pity but scandal would 
cling to him like a taint. The Trust Company 
indeed! Why, it would no more employ the 
hero of such a story than the Bank of England 
would have hired Sir Roger Tichborne! 

Dick forgot that Tichborne was a convicted 
perjurer—bitterness, not reason, made the com¬ 
parison. For after all, what had he done? He 
pounded this question into every step of the way. 
There was no answer. The whole affair stupefied 
him anyhow. Even now he could not decide 
whether M. Charles were the deceiver or the de¬ 
ceived. 

By this time the hill was climbed and he had 
walked for some distance along its crest leaving 
the town behind. A baker's cart rattled by, 
otherwise the road was empty. The sun rested 
on the rim of distant hills, a western bulwark on 
which he looked, not knowing their names. These 
hills, the Braes of Angus, reminded Dick of the 
painted hills in the Canticles miniature, whose 


DUNOTTAR CASTLE 


385 


round tops were flooded with sunshine. Once 
more his mind winced from pain.. 

Ahead of him to the left, he perceived that a 
peninsula of rock, detached from the cliff, thrust 
itself into a battering- sea. On the top there 
looked to be a sort of ruin which caught his atten¬ 
tion. First, the heavy mass of a keep was out¬ 
lined against the sky: smaller buildings were 
grouped at its foot, some roofless and with green 
grass between; fragments of a mighty wall still 
defended the whole. Surely a strong fortress had 
once looked seaward! Now the waves tore at it 
and worried it, threw masses of spray high to 
drench it; withdrew with grinding teeth, returned 

with fresh assault.The young man paused to 

gaze upon this strange and picturesque place; 
and soon spied a path which led to it across the 
fields from a turnstile at the road’s edge. 

The walk was longer than appeared and much 
rougher; dipped steeply down between the shaly 
cliffs and climbed up again to where the mas¬ 
sive wall still spanned the chasm. Here was a 
ruined arch and a door which stood open, while 
within, the entrance to an old guard-house 
showed as black and blank as the mouth of a cave. 
The place was quite deserted. 

In a few minutes he found himself standing in 
what had been the castle courtyard now over¬ 
grown with turf showing strangely green upon 
the barren rock. Flocks of sea-birds flapped and 
swooped over it, crying aloud as they came and 
went. Dick sat down on the ruin of the castle 
well to rest; the place fitted his mood. Most of 




386 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


the ruin was mere heaps of rock, not easily told 
from the underlying cliff. He could mark the 
chapel ground-plan by its sequence of broken 
pillars; few of the outbuildings had more than 
one story left, and through their crevices and 
breaches the wind poured and fluted. He sat for 
long and long till he was chilled in it, staring out 
on the North Sea. 

A green and cruel sea, a deadly cold, uneasy 
sea. An old saying came into his mind. “Der 
Nord See ist der Mord See.” That stretch of 
wild water getting up into wrath of foam under 
the night-wind—how thick the dead lay under it! 
He had not seen it since the time when submar¬ 
ines lurked beneath and grey battleships tramped 
its floor and guns roared on its borders—a hor¬ 
rible sea.He thought of the strange, fierce 

men who had held this castle in the old days and 
thinking, leaned against a heap of stones and 
looked—looked—. 

By and by Dick realized the sun was gone; he 
was cold and very tired. There was nothing for 
it, he supposed, but to go back to Stonehaven for 
the night. Yet he hesitated, for he hated the 
town and the frowsy lodging which would be 
all he could afford, if indeed he could afford that. 
He would have but little left when the return fare 

to London had been paid.Cold as this was, 

somehow he felt more at home in this desolate 
place, which yet stood so sturdily against water 
and wind. There was a loft to the keep and with 
some faint hope in his mind of shelter there he 
ran up to it. Great breaches in the walls freely 




DUNOTTAR CASTLE 


387 


admitted the air, but the roof still held and more 
than half of the space was heaped with hay. Evi¬ 
dently the harvest of the courtyard had been 
stacked here to keep dry so that the air was still 
sweet and fragrant with clover. Dick had no 
hesitation; at the sight his weariness overcame 
him. Chilled and miserable he crept into the 
heart of the heap and burrowed there. He spread 
the hay over him, rolled up his coat for a pillow 
and soon in the warmth his limbs relaxed, his 
mind moved drowsily among his perplexities and 
he fell asleep. 

He was awakened by the loud roaring of the 
tide against the rocks. Dawn, barred with gold 
and red, chilly with autumn wind welcomed him 
without. Below, the ocean tore with vehemency 
at the foundations of his refuge and threw its 
spray to the height of the keep. Yet Dick felt 
reluctant to leave the ruin which had sheltered 
him so kindly. Not till long after did he learn 
the name of it, how the regalia of Scotland had 
been hidden there in olden wars and how, in the 
hollow crypt where the waves beat, Covenanters 
had been imprisoned. Perhaps it was well that 
he did not know of the ghosts said to haunt the 
chamber below that wherein he slept. This rest 
had heartened and steadied him. There was that 
in the brave, windy, atmosphere of the place 
seemed to speak of courage and hope again. 
What he had to face he should face better for his 
stay there. 

Since it was yet too early for anyone to be both¬ 
ering, Dick clambered down to the sea’s edge for 


388 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


a dip. He found it rare and cold, no place for 
swimming. The bath started his blood running 
and made him remember a bun in the pocket of 
his coat left from yesterday’s lunch, which he had 
been too miserable to think of the night before. 
This morning he munched it and wished it had 
been bigger. While he munched he made a plan 
that he would buy another or a sandwich and a 
cup of coffee in Stonehaven and thence trudge 
back to Aberdeen on foot. The distance was 
a scant fifteen miles: he could take this whole 
pleasant day to it and catch the night train to 
London. There he would take counsel with Ay- 
loffe and beyond that it were best not to look. 

So absorbed was Dick, sitting on a broken pil¬ 
lar-shaft in the ruined courtyard of Dunottar 
Castle that his gaze never turned to the mainland 
and thus he never noticed a motor-car which had 
stopped on the top of the hill, over against the 
/■urn-stile. The occupants of this car were two 
ladies, one of whom busied herself on some mat¬ 
ter by the roadside, while the other took the path 
seawards, toward the ruin. Her young, light 
shape was outlined for a time against the sky, 
but Dick never looked that way. And thus it 
was that under the shadow of the archway the}^ 
met face to face. 

Had it been at any other place or any other 
time in their history no doubt this meeting would 
have been like other meetings: “How strange to 
see you here, Sir Richard!” and “How are you, 
Miss Lang?” 

But what Jean saw in the haggard face before 


DUNOTTAR CASTLE 


389 


her, in the brave, troubled eyes, brought all the 
love without disguise into her own. She stood 
still, there in the path and Dick with a gasp came 
up to her and took her in his arms. All his dis¬ 
appointment and bitterness and apprehension 
swept him toward her as to the one thing that 
could help. If she were there nothing mattered 
and he called her name over and over again with 
a passion of trust and reliance. He dropped his 
face to her shoulder and she could hear his heart. 

“Oh Jean/’ he cried, “Oh Jean dearest! How 
I’ve longed for you! How I’ve needed you!” 

“I know,” she murmured, “I know.” 

“Oh Jean!” said he again and then it all came 
out. “I’ve been to Langford’s and I’ve talked 
with Biddy and—we were right to suspect what 
we did.It’s all up with me, Jean, I’m a beg¬ 

gar and worse—because—you never guessed, 
darling—did you? but Biddy is the real Mary 
McNeil!” 

If Mrs. Byrd thought her friend showed a 
singular indifference to her breakfast, she did not 
say so when her sharp eyes observed Jean’s com¬ 
panion. Instead she greeted him composedly 
with a “Good morning, Sir Richard,” which Jean 
at once corrected. 

“He not Sir Richard, Georgie after all! He’s 
not Monkton of Shank—he’s just Monkton.” 

“.of Philadelphia,” Dick suggested, but 

his smile was cheerful. 

Mrs. Byrd did not look surprised, but then Mrs. 
Byrd seldom did. She had been occupied in set¬ 
ting out by the roadside the materials which she 





390 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


carried in thermos flasks and sandwich cases. 
The aroma of her coffee machine rose into the 
air. Mrs. Byrd whipped off the apron which had 
protected a becoming travelling frock; wiped her 
hands and resumed her rings. Then she waved 
her companions to table and took up the coffee¬ 
pot. 

“Yes, I know it’s only two miles to the hotel,” 
she observed, pouring and serving, “but what I’ve 
seen of ’em in Scotland makes me prefer ‘God’s 
green caravanserai’. So the jig is up, is it? You 
don’t say? I suppose you’ve something definite 
to go on, now, have you? You needn’t mind me— 
the damned thing, unfortunately, is my profes¬ 
sion. Did Lance tell you?” 

“He kept calling you the Chief—” 

“That’s just his little literary way,” said Mrs. 
Byrd apologetically, “he studied under Dr. Doyle 

—Conan I mean, and he likes that method. 

Yes, it seems a funny profession for a lady, 
doesn’t it? But it isn’t always as blind and futile 

as this case makes it.The trouble with this 

case, you see, is politics and business and society 
and all pulling me different ways. It’s like tying 
a man hand and foot and then giving him a gun 
to shoot a grizzly! But go on, my young friend, 
and tell me all about it.” 

Dick complied. The narrative was supposedly 
addressed to the detective, but all the while the 
teller looked devouringly at Jean. When he fin¬ 
ished, Mrs. Byrd asked only one question: 

“You say Charles Ventris was here yesterday? 




DUNOTTAR CASTLE 


391 


H’m.Jeanie, my lamb, get busy because 

we’ll have to be moving on.” 

Jean made some incoherent observation about 
wanting to be sure what Mr. Monkton’s plans 
were. She looked handsome and sensitive and 
foolish, her eyes were full of light and her cheeks 
of color; but her friend’s crisp command expected 
nothing but obedience. In a few minutes the 
basket was packed and Mrs. Byrd took the wheel. 

“Get in, children!” she ordered and as they 
still hesitated she continued, with impatience— 
“There’s plenty of time to discuss Mr. Monkton’s 

plans later.just now we’ve work to do. I’ve 

got to get to the telegraph office as quick as I can. 
Then we’ll go on to your mother’s, Jeanie my 
lamb, to hear what’s happened there, for after 
that, this young man and I will have to be getting 
back to town.” 




CHAPTER XXXIV 

CHRISTIE’S 

O N the way back to London in the train, Mrs. 

Byrd discussed frankly with Dick cer¬ 
tain aspects of the affair and of her part as in¬ 
vestigator therein. There were other aspects on 
which she scarcely touched and he was reluctant 
to question her. They had the carriage to them¬ 
selves and she sat in her corner a smart, alert 
figure, well-appointed, leisurely, yet with the la¬ 
tent energy of her countryfolk, and Dick had hard 
work to convince himself of her profession. As 
to her work in the case in hand she was frankness 
itself, speaking of it as “one of my most brilliant 
failures!” 

“Of course I feel badly about it,” she explained, 
“because there’s no doubt I sent Stern to his 
death. You see, after we traced the centre of 
activity to Shank, I became convinced that search 
would show up some traces of the place where 
forged antiques were made—if made they were. 
I had doped out that stair behind the cartoon 
from some old plans I found and I assumed there 
would be a quiet way in and out, useful to the 
392 


CHRISTIE’S 


393 


gang who were running things.Somebody 

caught Stern spying around; and there was a 
fight and he was shot. When I got down there 
I saw at once that all that part of the building 
was far too dark for work so delicate as illuminat¬ 
ing and that a secret exit must be near the work¬ 
shop. So if it wasn’t down it was bound to be up 

that little stair, and so I told my lamb. 

what I stuck in that letter beside my address was 
a £ 5 note and a key—and it was lucky I did!... ” 
“It was nothing else but plain commonsense,” 
she added apologetically, “which made me guess 
that you would lose no time in obeying my letter 
and that they would do their best to stop you.... 
And there was no better way of stopping you than 
by stealing your money. So that’s why I told 
Lance you wouldn’t have any. No miraculous in¬ 
sight about that.but as we were saying— 

that was just plain commonsense. 

“Well, the inquest showed me there wasn’t a 
mite of evidence to make an arrest. The only 
really shady folks concerned had an unshakeable 
alibi. The scrap of parchment Jeanie picked up 
proved no more than we knew already—that 

somebody in Shank had done the shooting. 

Oh, of course you’ve read detective novels, 
haven’t you? And they always provide clues, 
don’t they? I ought to have identified hair out of 
the dust of a century—and finger-prints on those 
granite walls—and footprints on the flags, which 
didn’t retain any! Yes: but that’s where the 
novelist has the advantage of us, my boy. Lots 







394 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


of crimes occur leaving no clues at all and don’t 
you forget it.” 

“You have suspicions, though’, surely?” 

“My dear young friend,” she observed tran¬ 
quilly, “one doesn’t create a large international 
scandal and send several people into bankruptcy 

on a suspicion—it isn’t pretty and besides. 

I’m not the Yard, you know! If you talk to my 
friend Peter Godston—(you did once I think, and 
he took quite a shine to you) you’ll find that he 
thinks all this talk about forged manuscripts is 
rot. He doesn’t believe in it and his theory is 
that Stern was killed in a plain fight, being where 
he had no business to be, by somebody who is too 
scared to talk. If that’s the Yard’s view, what am 
I to do? I’m just a consulting specialist who 
knows something about old truck and I’ve been 
retained by the Dulacqs to see that whatever 
happens they don’t suffer. The rest is England 
and England’s business.” 

“But there’s me, there’s my case,” said Dick 
quietly, “Surely that gives you something to go 
on?” 

“Oh now you’re talking,” she answered, “and 
that’s why you and I are hurrying back to Lon¬ 
don and leaving Jeanie behind.” She paused and 
glanced at his serious face. “It’s a bad, black 
business,” she added. 

“Have you any theory?” he asked and she an¬ 
swered him readily, her blue eyes fixed on the 
passing scenery of Yorkshire. 

“There are facts, of course, and theories to be 
formed from them. My feeling is that the whole 



CHRISTIE’S 


395 


thing grew out of somebody’s hearing you were 
marked with those Monkton peculiarities—the 
nick in the ear, the twist in the eyebrows. I find 
in the old records that the Monktons have always 
had ’em, the cadet branch as well as the Shank 
line. Nobody liked Lycett Monkton and there’s 

a motive.Was M. Charles played upon by 

somebody who knew his feeling? That’s what I 
wonder.” 

“He must have been,” Dick muttered, “he must 
have been. You think he is deceived—don’t 
you ?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered flatly, “I know 
how it all might come about—and nothing more. 
I guess it’s easier to forge letters than manu¬ 
scripts, when all’s said. Undoubtedly they hunted 
for Mary McNeil and old Biddy was well hidden. 
So when they couldn’t find the real McNeil, they 

supplied a false one—or Coles did.I hate 

that Coles man with his twisted head!” she broke 
out, “the Lord in Heaven might testify to his alibi 
and yet I’d believe he was in it! I feel it some¬ 
how and that means,” she relaxed into a laugh, 
“that I’m a female first, last and all the time.” 

“But surely there’s something definite in this 
chaos. Surely McNeil can be arrested?” 

Mrs. Byrd once more stared tranquilly out of 
the window. “Oh yes,” she replied placidly, “She 
can be and no doubt in time she will be. Tam¬ 
pering with the Baronetage is not a favorite occu¬ 
pation in England and she’ll find it out. But if 
you ask am I going to have her picked up—why 
should I? From my point of view they all stand 




396 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 

in a row like bricks—Coles and Hays and McNeil, 
M. Charles and Lady Monkton, M. Jerome and 
M. Anatole and Lancelot and you and God knows 
who else. Knock one down and they all go.” 

“And Lady Monkton?” he choked in horror, 
“You think that Lady Monkton—?” 

Mrs. Byrd answered him with a shake of the 
head. “The Lord be merciful to my sex,” she 
remarked after a pause, “if only for what they will 
do to help a man they love. I’ve nothing against 
Lady Monkton except that she is unmarried to 
Charles Ventris.” 

“Then,” said Dick in despair, “what are you 
going to do?” 

“I am going to lunch,” said Mrs. Byrd firmly, 
“and so are you. Pull that basket out from the 
pile, there’s a good boy—there’s more in it than 
scones I tell you—” And she refused to say any¬ 
thing more for all the rest of their journey. 

Two days later Dick accompanied by Ayloffe 
was summoned to her lodging in Half Moon 
Street. As they went upstairs to her sitting-room 
they encountered a large individual coming down 
who was immediately recognized by Richard as 
Inspector Godston. 

“Glad to see you,” the latter observed; and 
when he added, “Don’t fail to call on me if you 
need help,” Dick realized matters must be moving 
toward a crisis. 

They found the Chief seated at her desk with 
several telegrams and letters before her and she 
gave them a concentrated greeting. “I can give 
you only a few minutes,” said she, with a glance 


CHRISTIE’S 


397 


at her watch, “as I'm expecting- rather an impor¬ 
tant interview. But first of all I want to tell you, 
Richard, that Sir John Flippin will be back in 
town tomorrow evening. He will send for you 
after I ? ve talked with him and then we shall see. 
Keep yourself out of sight meanwhile; M. Charles 
is combing London for you as I happen to know." 

She paused, shifted the papers before her and 
then turned round upon them her eyes flashing 
like the diamonds edging her wrist-watch. 

“I tell you, Lance, I'm getting tired of having 
my hands tied by these respected partners of 
yours. The whole case has been a mere tissue of 
assumptions and suspicions and I'm given no 
chance to turn these into proofs.Appar¬ 

ently, manuscript forgery is a question for ex¬ 
perts anyhow and they don't agree at that. 

I have here—" she pounded the desk, “three sep¬ 
arate opinions contradicting one another, and 
even Jerome Dulacq doesn't seem wild to commit 
himself." 

Ayloffe looked quite miserable. “I know," he 
assented—“but think—!" 

“It's more than they are doing. Here's this 
sale at Christie's coming off in a day or two and 
His Grace the Duke of Bradford is likely to spend 
a lot of money. Is that a time for shilly-shally? 
Yet here is Jerome Dulacq," she shook a paper at 
them, “gibbering at me—yes, I said gibbering— 
in a series of frantic cablegrams about the effect 
on the market and the danger of trying to expose 
anybody!" 

“Then what can we do?" 




398 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


The lady once more seemed to immerse herself 
in a mass of notes and Ayloffe was forced to wait 
until she raised her head. “Only one thing—and 
that you're not to mention. I've sent to Paris for 
Anatole Dulacq—he has more sense than Jerome 

.I shall talk to him and tell him my plan.. 

.... I don't think that he will expect me to make 
an omelette without breaking eggs." 

“When will he appear?" 

She looked at him. “Today I hope.but 

I am not certain. Meanwhile—" 

“Meanwhile, Chief, what the devil am I to do? 
Am I to bid ? Am I not to bid ? Suppose a doubt 
is thrown, will my clients back out and leave me 
to pay for the Godolphin Choral ? Do you see my 
position?" 

“I see it, Lance," she composedly returned, 
“but it's not my affair. If Dulacq's had given me 
a free hand I might advise you. As it is, I don’t 
buy manuscripts. That's your business." 

“But won't you tell me anything more?" he 
entreated, “you spoke of having a plan—" but 
she merely looked at him with a firm, polite re¬ 
fusal and once more bent over her desk. Ay¬ 
loffe rose, but asked one more question as he 
started to leave the room. 

“Shall I catch the measles, Chief, and stay 
away from the sale altogether?" 

Mrs. Byrd then condescended a final word. 
“Go, go, by all means, my dear boy! If only as a 
spectacle of human frailty, I think you'll find it 
highly repaying." 





CHRISTIE’S 


399 


And with this philosophic suggestion the har¬ 
assed Ayloffe was forced to be content. 

Dick had hard work in persuading Ayloffe to 
let him go also to the sale and succeeded only 
after evolving a sort of disguise, not too theatrical 
in aspect. Moustaches broadened his thin face 
while hat and muffler showed as little of it as 
possible. He entered the Great Rooms some 
paces behind his friend, followed him discreetly 
to the inner room taking his own seat in an 
obscure corner. The chamber where the sale 
was to take place was already half filled—he saw 
one or two men he knew—old Sir Peter was 
there as usual, wagging his white eye-brows. On 
the dais a lectern had been placed and the Can¬ 
ticles lay open at the fourth Miniature. A 
soft, delicate splendor arose from its open pages 
and men hovered respectfully over it as if around 
a king. Smaller specimens, like courtiers, were 
grouped about. The lighting of the place was 
skilful and adequate to display these objects, for 
it fell directly upon them, but Dick noticed that 
it made harsh the faces of men. 

After a few minutes he saw M. Charles, at 
whose entry heads were turned and who paused 
awhile over old Sir Peter's chair. Dick looked 
rather longingly, even a little bitterly, upon him. 
How finely chiselled that sculptured face of his— 
now wreathed in smiles—how distinguished his 
tall grace! He had a friend linked by the arm and 
now they paused at the lectern and made as it 

were an obeisance.M. Charles's white hand 

fluttered over the page, indicating, expounding 



400 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


—. He leaned a moment over his treasure and 
looked abroad at the room now almost filled. 
Dick turned his glance aside. When he looked 
back the Auctioneer was standing in his place and 
M. Charles had taken his seat at one side, where 
his back was toward Dick. The sale began. 

From the very first, bidding was brisk and 
prices started at a high level. Plainly the men 
present were almost all practically interested and 
the number of those present only from curiosity 
was comparatively small. Agents of all the great 
firms dealing in such rarities had hastened from 
Paris, Rome, New York and Buenos Aires. Al¬ 
though none of the manuscripts came from the 
Shank collections and all of them were the private 
property of Charles Ventris, it was evident 
they shared the cachet of that great library. Dick 
had gone over the catalogue with Ayloffe and 
knew that the first five or six numbers bore an 
unquestioned reputation with a pedigree running 
unbroken to their original monastery collections. 
M. Charles had purchased them openly at sales 
in Paris and in Russia years before. Dick there¬ 
fore expected no questioning and was glad to see 
that Ayloffe secured two coveted volumes for his 

firm.if at prices nearly double those which 

had been paid at their last sale. If Dick was 
pleased, M. Charles was plainly pleased also— 
things were indeed going well. Then the hush 
came. The Canticles was introduced. 

“I do not need to tell those gentlemen who have 
examined this work of art,” the auctioneer was 
saying, “that no more perfect example of minia- 



CHRISTIE’S 


401 


ture painting has ever come into the market. Mr. 
Ventris, whose authority you all know, has de¬ 
clared that in all his long experience these four 
miniatures are the highest specimens of fifteenth 
century Italian art that have ever passed into his 
hands. The paintings are far finer than those of 
the famous Silvestro Fiorentino, whose skill es¬ 
pecially delighted Pope Leo X: and indeed in 
freedom of style and in richness of fancy they are 
held equal to Fra Angelico and Simone Memmi. 
One of them is probably the most superb single 
specimen in existence.Unhappily, there re¬ 

main only these four; the Canticles therefore, is 
incomplete. Evidently the intention of the paint¬ 
er was to do a miniature for each chapter. But 
the rich initials and delicate floreated borders 
have been spared to us and I believe I am fully 
warranted in starting this superb work of art at 
the extremely moderate price of £8,000—” 

“One moment, if you please!” 

There had been a stir at the door and now a 
voice cut the fusillade of bidding and silenced it. 
The man who spoke stood at the further wall well 
up toward the front. He was an entire stranger 
to Dick—a tall, foreign looking person, carefully 
dressed and wearing a pointed black beard. He 
held a book in his hand. The auctioneer, com¬ 
manding quiet by a gesture, leaned enquiringly 
toward the newcomer. 

“On account of the great value of the item just 
introduced,” the dark man proceeded, in com¬ 
posed, clear English though with a marked for¬ 
eign accent, “some of us would like to have a little 



402 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


further information as to its history. A manu¬ 
script stated to be worth more than £8,000 de¬ 
serves to have its pedigree more fully opened to 
connoisseurs than has here been the case.” 

The name murmured around the room was 
“Dulacq—M. Anatole Dulacq.” Dick could see 
Ayloffe’s excited face turned toward his chief. 
Meanwhile the auctioneer and his assistant 
looked both annoyed and puzzled. 

“The entire history regarding the discovery of 
the Canticles has been furnished us by the 
owner—” he began, but M. Dulacq again inter¬ 
rupted him. 

“I make no doubt that you have been satisfied,” 
he said firmly but courteously, “I only wish to 
point out that we , persons invited to purchase this 
costly manuscript have not been. For instance; 
the catalogue states that it was discovered and 
acquired by M. Charles Ventris during a certain 
week in July, while touring on the Franco-Italian 
border. I have here a statement,” he unfolded 
a paper, “made by the Prefeture du Midi, inform¬ 
ing me that during that time Mr. Ventris was not 
in Italy—was not in France—but was actually in 
England!” 

The argument had completely halted the ma¬ 
chinery of the sale. Men began to stir and whis¬ 
per to each other. Up to this moment, Dick had 
observed M. Charles still quietly and indifferently 
keeping his place on the front row just below the 
auctioneer. But now as that slightly bewildered 
official turned to him M. Charles leaned forward 
and said a few words in an undertone. The 


CHRISTIE'S 


403 


auctioneer’s face cleared and he again addressed 
M. Anatole Dulacq. 

“We cannot delay the sale longer, M. Dulacq, 
in order to discuss these questions. Your infor¬ 
mation is incorrect and based on an error which 
Mr. Ventris is quite ready to explain. I beg of 
you to resume your seat and let us proceed.” He 
then spoke out into the room; “In regard to the 
history of this beautiful volume,” he said laying 
his hand upon it, “the reputation of Mr. Charles 
Ventris as an authority of many years standing, 
is sufficient I think, to account for it to any and 
all of the collectors here present.” 

“I beg your pardon, but this is what I ques¬ 
tion,” came the reply, swift and startling. “What¬ 
ever Mr. Ventris’s authority as an expert may 
have been—I here dispute it in toto . Mr. Ventris 
evidently must in this instance have been de¬ 
ceived. Mr. Ventris cannot account for the 
Canticles because the Canticles stand under grave 
suspicion of forgery!” 

A stupefied pause followed these words and 
broke into a growl of protest and ejaculation. 
“Nonsense!” “An insult!” “Prove your words!” 
came from various parts of the room and one in¬ 
sistent voice kept repeating “Proof! Proof!” 

Very red in the face, the auctioneer leaned over 
his desk and pounded with his gavel crying, 
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” M. Charles had 
stepped up to the dais and looked steadily around 
the room. His eyes rested on the face of M. Du¬ 
lacq, with an odd, still expression. His mouth 
was twisted. 


404 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


M. Dulacq remained undisturbed in his place, 
and he too looked around the group of excited 
and hostile faces. 

“I hear someone asking for proof,” he said in 
his edgy voice, “one does not make so serious a 
charge without it. I have here,” and he held up 
the book he carried, “a Virgil Twelfth century 
style—also the discovery of M. Charles Ventris 
and sold by him many years ago to an American 
collector. As you shall see, it is in workmanship 
a lovely object, very typical of its period and 

school.Do I not see Sir Peter Pyke present 

—and Mr. Porter Meesom? Perhaps those two 
gentlemen will not mind coming forward to the 
dais and comparing the background in this minia¬ 
ture—representing the parting of Dido and 
Hineas—with that of the fourth miniature of the 
Canticles?” 

The auctioneer tried to protest but decided that 
the temper of the room demanded that events 
should take their course. He moved aside and 
mopped his face, while the two persons indicated 
came forward to the dais, where Mr. Ventris still 
stood, head up, his eyes on his accuser. 

“I wish to add,” and here M. Dulacq slightly 
raised his voice, “that my firm have had their 
suspicions for more than a year. We hoped to 
remain silent; if we have had to make so serious 
a charge, it has not been our own doing. Ah, Sir 
Peter! You have been struck? I thought so! 
But there is yet more.” 

By this time, these three, the Frenchman and 
the two experts, dominated the room. The auc- 



CHRISTIE’S 


405 


tioneer, now white-faced, had retired and stood 
looking sideways at Mr. Ventris. He had lost his 
chance to interfere, for the audience now hung on 
every word of the speaker’s. 

“I have in my hand,’’ M. Dulacq moved a step 
forward and unfolded a roll he carried, “an illumi¬ 
nated address of welcome presented to the 
Mayor of a French town nearly forty years ago. 
There is an elaborate border and lettering. The 
name of the illuminator is signed to it. Will you, 
Sir Peter, compare the lettering, the workman¬ 
ship, the initials, with any part of the Canticles 
and tell me if you think they are by the same 
hand?” 

Silence hung breathless over the room. Dick 
saw M. Charles’s face, and it wore a faint, stiff 

smile.Then Sir Peter straightened himself 

and put up his eye-glass. 

“Thank you, Sir Peter. Are you satisfied?” 

Sir Peter rubbed his eye-glass and looked 
across the dais at the auctioneer. “So far as I 
am concerned,” his gruff voice could be heard, “I 
am satisfied that this sale should not proceed.” 

Then, looking neither to right nor left, he 
hobbled clumsily off the dais and out of the room, 
never turning his head and with indignation in 
every line of his stiff back. 

Now, indeed, hubbub broke loose. M. Anatole 
closely followed Sir Peter; others sprang to their 
feet. Dick watched Mr. Ventris, who had stood 
in his place, so quiet, so quiet.For an in¬ 

stant he was seen to lick his lips and his hand 




406 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


shook.Then he sprang forward, while his 

voice pealed through the room. 

“My friends!” he cried, and his eyes were wide 
and blazing, “Gentlemen! Don’t you know these 
Yankee firms by this time? Haven’t you heard 
of their tricks? That they will stoop to any¬ 
thing? blacken anyone? The price was too high 
for M. Dulacq—he was disappointed—that, that 
is all gentlemen!” 

For one moment his charm, his personal force 
swayed them—they stood undecided—but only 
for a moment. The honest face of old Sir Peter 
Pyke had passed through the room like a torch. 
M. Charles continued to talk: his voice, that mar¬ 
vellous voice, rose in its poignancy almost to a 
shriek... People turned their backs and streamed 
out. 

The Canticles still lay on its desk like a king 
on his throne, but it was a king deserted by his 
courtiers. When Dick, at the door, looked piti¬ 
fully back, the auctioneer had come up and laid 
his hand soothingly on M. Charles’s arm. He 
was still gesticulating at the crowd and some¬ 
thing in his face showed him to be lost—lost—. 



CHAPTER XXXV 

THE DOOR IN THE PANELLING 

A MESSAGE from Sir John Flippin, which 
Dick had been expecting-, reached him 
early on the same evening and sent him hurrying 
to the barrister’s house. At Hyde Park Corner 
he bought the Evening Standard and was not a 
little surprised to see the events which were for 
him so fateful and so dramatic, chronicled tame¬ 
ly under the caption, “Disturbance at Messrs. 
Christie’s—Serious Accusations,” in a trivial inch 
of print. 

This was not the first time he had consulted 
Sir John since the latter’s return from Norway. 
The two had already canvassed the occurrences 
of the last fortnight in a long talk, during which 
the K. C. underwent a far greater mental dis¬ 
turbance than his face had ever betrayed. His 
ejaculations of “God bless my soul! This is a 
very shocking affair!” passed into a close, shrewd 
cross-examination of Monkton, begun on a harsh 
note for which the young man was sadly prepared 
as inevitable. It had comforted him somewhat 
however, to notice that by the time the cross-ex- 

407 


408 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


animation was ended, Sir John’s manner had re¬ 
gained much of its geniality. Evidently, he did 
not regard Dick in the light of a wilful impostor. 

When he arrived at Sir John’s and was shown 
into the study, he found Mrs. Byrd there, deep in 
talk with the master of the house. That lady 
wore an air which is best described as one of 
leisurely alertness. Her plainly drawn grey hair 
and pleasant, powerful face were in odd contrast 
to her blue evening dress, her wrap of embroid¬ 
ered Chinese shawls and her fine pearls. She 
looked the embodiment of cool, aloof prosperity 
and Dick had hard work in his own mind to re¬ 
gard her as the core of those feverish activities 
concerning himself and so many others. She 
gave him a smiling nod and Sir John, with an 
off-hand abstracted greeting, bade him be seated 
while he continued the conversation. 

“Then the coup of this morning,” he was ask¬ 
ing, “is entirely your work ?” 

“It is,” she affirmed. “When I got hold of 
Anatole Dulacq I put it up to him. I told him he 
and his brother had shilly-shallied and played the 
timid game too long as it was. I pointed out he 
had small choice. He had this one chance, to hit, 
to hit hard and to hit first. Then at least his firm 
would appear to be acting wholly in the interests 
of honesty. They might lose that sale but they’d 
still be trusted. Otherwise I don’t believe there 
was going to be enough left of Dulacq’s to pay 
the referee.” 

“Just so. I see.” the K. C. commented, “You 
were quite right of course.” 


DOOR IN THE PANELLING 


409 


“Of course: and finally he saw that I was. 
Particularly when the illuminated address ar¬ 
rived from France.” 

“I was wondering about that. How on earth 
did you discover such a thing ?” 

“Oh, I guessed,” she answered gaily, “a de¬ 
tective is mostly just a good guesser, you know. 
When I saw the Canticles in Paris I saw it was 
the work of an artist—a real artist, whether he 
was a fraud or no. Work like that couldn’t be 
produced without apprenticeship, devotion and 
training. I felt that the forgery idea would only 
occur to somebody who’d already given 
proof of talent for the art. Human nature’s an 
odd thing—vanity leads most of us I guess, Sir 
John.” 

Sir John nodded. “You interest me deeply, 
my dear madam,” he said, “pray proceed.” 

“Well, after that, it just worked itself out. If 
painting like that had received recognition and 
the painter had been known and successful there 
would have been no need to pretend it was old. 
Some obscure poor devil then, but one who left 
proof of his skill most likely, if we know where to 
look. I set to work in France and made some 
inquiries, and that was the result. ’Twas a close 
shave, however, for it only just reached us in 
time.” 

She was interrupted by the telephone which 
stood on Sir John’s desk and when she had re¬ 
placed the receiver she turned to them with a 
grave look. 

“If you need to get any private information 


410 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


out of Charles Ventris, Sir John, you’d better 
be getting along to Monkton House. Yes.... 

. .he’s still there, they say, and he’ll stay there. 
There’s lots to be gained for him in brazening it 
out. But that was my friend Peter Godston, 
who’s had a busy day at Shank with Hays and 
Coles. He wants to ask questions too, I’m think- 
ing.” 

“Are you coming?” Dick asked her, but she 
gave a little distasteful shudder. 

“Not I!” said she, and gathered up her gor¬ 
geous embroideries, “my work in this job is all 
but finished and I prefer to leave the gory details 
to the police. No, no! I must be getting home to 
my lodgings and writing a letter to Jeanie. Oh 
yes, I’ll send her your love. So long, my boy!” 

A taxi was got for her, and then a second in 
which Sir John and Dick set forth. The barrister 
kept silence at first and Dick was oppressed with 
a cloud of pain and apprehension. That it should 
be this way he was again to meet M. Charles—! 
After awhile, Sir John said: “It’s bad Monkton, 
bad, and it’s going to be worse. I’ve a cable from 
Scrope—he was beside himself. There’s been a 
good bit of laxity in the estate accounts, it seems 
—borrowings and such informalities, to call them 
by no harsher name. Much had drifted into Ven- 
tris’s hands, even during Sir Piers’ life-time. He 
must be open with us concerning your affair—it 
is his only hope.” 

As the cab turned off St. James’s into the well- 
remembered narrow street, Sir John made a noise 
in his throat. 

“Too late!” he said. 


DOOR IN THE PANELLING 


411 


Inspector Godston, and two other men were 
standing before the door of Monkton House. 
When Richard and Sir John alighted the Inspect¬ 
or gave them a serious inclination of the head 
and once more set his finger to the bell. 

Andrews, who opened the door, was evidently 
taken aback at the group. 

“I have orders to admit Sir Richard only,” was 
his protest, “otherwise my master left word he 
was not to be disturbed—” 

Inspector Godston however paid small atten¬ 
tion to Andrews but marched past him and began 
to mount the stair, followed by Sir John and Dick. 
The two plain clothes men, at a sign from their 
chief, remained in the lower hall with the servant 
who now looked frightened to death. 

They knocked at the familiar door but the In¬ 
spector did not wait for an answer. He threw it 
open—the glow from the room within seemed to 
suffuse the whole hall. Once again, Dick felt as if 
he had stepped into the heart of a golden, yellow 
sunset—a soft, rich light enfolded him. The 
room was just as he remembered it on that April 
evening when he stood, dazzled, hesitating on the 
threshold; its beautiful contents all in order, a 
touch of perfume lingering in the air. Just as 
then, the owner sat in his deep leather chair, fac¬ 
ing the entrance, under the standard lamp, only— 
he did not rise and come forward. Mr. Ventris 
sat in an easy position, dressed for dinner and 
with a book open on his knees. Between his 
fingers spread upon the pages, one caught the 
gleam of gold and red and blue. He must be 


412 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


very much absorbed in the book, Dick thought, 
for his head was bent down and at their entrance 

he did not even raise it.So strange, so 

unexpected was this tranquil figure, deep in his 
chair and bent over the page—so strange that it 
did not move or turn or look up, that the visitors 
paused as it were uncertain on the threshold. 
Then Dick heard Sir John Flippin say, “By God !” 
and then—almost in admiration—“How like 
him!” 

With the words, mystery passed into sad cer¬ 
tainty. The Inspector was disgusted. 

“I told them at the Yard, he was likely to play 
some such trick/’ he remarked. “He has been 

dead an hour or more.I’d better have my 

men up, we must make a report—Where’s the 
telephone—?” 

They turned to leave the room. Dick had a 
sudden onrush of personal grief: he did not wish 
the others to notice and so he said nothing, but 
lowered his head. 

“Richard—Sir John—one moment!” 

In the far corner of the room, a pierced screen 
was hurriedly thrust aside and a tall woman 
came suddenly out from behind it. She was en¬ 
veloped in a dark cloak and she moved swiftly 
toward them with hand uplifted. Even in that 
instant, Dick saw that behind the screen a door 
in the panelling stood ajar. 

“One moment—all of you—Richard, I beg, one 
little moment!” she panted out, her face and voice 
quivering. “Before you send for your men—I 
have a message to deliver to Richard—listen to 




DOOR IN THE PANELLING 413 

The Inspector’s notebook was in his hand. 

“Who are you, madam, and what do you know 
about this man’s death?” 

“It’s Lady Monkton,” Sir John said. 

She tried for calm and in part, attained it. She 
'grasped the top of the dead man’s chair and held 

on.“He asked me—to come here at eight 

.by the old garden passage.When I 

came.thus I found him.but there was 

a letter.Some of it I cannot read.He 

said 'Tell Dick Monkton all you know. I want 
him to hear the truth.’ ” 

Flippin and the Inspector consulted together, 
the while she stood looking at them with desper¬ 
ate eyes; and then Sir John came toward her.... 
“Tell us what you know,” he said not ungently 
—“the time has come to be frank—” 

“The time has come,” she repeated; “Sir John 
—Richard—you will not think harshly of him— 
promise me that?” 

“In the presence of death we will listen char¬ 
itably, madam,” Sir John gently responded, 
“Will you sit?” 

She shook her head and the three men took 
chairs facing her. Pity for her was strong in 
Richard’s heart. She stood there beside the dead 
man: she put her arm as it were protectingly 
around his chair-back, her glance dropped now 
and again to the still figure: she summoned her¬ 
self to tell his strange story. 

“In the summer time, now forty years ago, Sir 
Piers Monkton, travelling in his own carriage 
stopped at a little village in Provence. He had 









414 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


succeeded to Shank but a few months before and 
was making some purchases here and there for 
his collections. Word had reached him that in 
this s village church was a chest of ancient manu¬ 
scripts, so he paused to see what he might find 
therein. The parish priest was absent, but at the 
presbytere Sir Piers found a tall youth of nine¬ 
teen, who named himself as a pupil of Father Se¬ 
bastian and opened the chest for the Englishman. 
Sir Piers found little of value; he bought and 
paid for a sheet or two showing traces of interest¬ 
ing text. The price paid was trifling, but in the 
course of his conversation with this remarkably 
intelligent young student, a good deal was said 
about the value of fine illuminations and the 
prices they brought in London or Paris. The 
listening youth made note of Sir Piers’ hotel in 
the town nearby and promised to report what¬ 
ever he might find in the neighborhood. In a fort¬ 
night he re-appeared with a single sheet, from the 
Second Gospel, enriched with an initial letter of 
striking beauty. You have both seen this; it 
hangs framed at Shank with a curtain before 
it. 

“Sir Piers paid the price asked for this leaf 
with enthusiasm and was greedy for further dis¬ 
coveries. He kept the youth with him and dur¬ 
ing their talks a great deal of information con¬ 
cerning collectors, sales, manuscripts and their 
study, passed into the-possession of the younger 
man*. When they parted, the latter had more 
money in his .pocket than he bad ever had in his 
life...... 




DOOR IN THE PANELLING 


415 


“Eight or nine months later Sir Piers again 
made his appearance in the neighborhood and 
the student met him with two alleged discoveries. ■< 
One, a rather common-place missal was genuine 
enough—the other was the first of that series 
of dazzling works of art which were the delight ^ 
—and alas! the ruin—of this dead man. It con¬ 
tained nine large and twenty smaller miniatures 
set in harmonious text amid borders of suave 
and intricate elaboration. Sir Piers was in 
ecstasy: he was by nature a dull man but sus¬ 
ceptible to two main emotions—flattery and de¬ 
votion to his possessions. This youth satisfied 
his craving for both while displaying a technical 
knowledge of which Sir Piers well knew the 
value. His was moreover a supple and fascinat¬ 
ing personality; to be in his society was delight¬ 
ful and he paid the elder man an incessant and 
skilful deference. Sir Piers had never had a more 
congenial companion. Then and there he carried 
off his new friend for a trip into Italy and before 
the year was out, the stranger was settled at 
Shank in the position of expert secretary and cur¬ 
ator.” 

Lady Monkton paused, appeared to consider, 
glanced pitifully down upon the figure in the 
chair, straightened her back, steadied her voice 
and spoke again. 

“What I have told you of the original meeting 
of these two men, Charles and my husband, I 
have learned at different times from each of them. 
What I am about to tell you lies within my own 
knowledge and experience.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

THE LAST ILLUMINATION 


tt'T'HE name of this youth was Charles Ven- 

JL trissier. He was illegitimate; his mother 
had been a Provengale, his father was said to be 
English and he had been born in England. In 
later years, it pleased his fancy to hint at a noble 
origin, but I think that came only from his ro¬ 
mantic imagination—from his vanity. He was 
always naively surprised at his success in the 
world and at the effect made by his personality.. 

“1 knew him first as a struggling, embittered 
boy, devoured by ambition and feeling the spur 
of distinguished talents. Charity supplied a 
little money for his education: it was supposed he 
would take Orders. His artistic skill brought 
small commissions—ancient documents en¬ 
trusted to him for restoration—an illuminated 
address or two was ordered from him when occa¬ 
sion arose. One of these was produced at the 
sale for his undoing: the signature in the corner 
was ‘C. Ventrissier. 5 

"To such a youth, in such circumstances the 
friendship with Sir Piers was like a door opening 
4X6 


THE LAST ILLUMINATION 


417 


into heaven. Almost overnight he found him¬ 
self respected, consulted, well-paid, surrounded 
with everything that his soul craved. Did he 
care for the friend to whom he owed all this? 
Yes: in his way he was devoted to Piers. After 
that first purchase he never permitted his friend 

to buy anything that he knew to be false. 

what he forged he sold to others and the money 
was placed at the service of Shank. 

“Although he made large sums yet Shank kept 
him perpetually poor as it kept Piers. During the 
early years of his curatorship he studied, he 
worked incessantly over the collections, confirm¬ 
ing his inclination for such objects until it became 
an overmastering passion. By this means the 
hoards which had been in confusion, were re¬ 
ordered and arranged; their richness was talked 
of; Charles made a catalogue of the paintings, 
Piers of the furniture; articles from their joint 
hands appeared in artistic journals; connoisseurs 
began to make pilgrimage to Shank. Charles 
had strengthened his hold by his discovery—it 
was a genuine discovery—of the “Treyze Sainctes 
Hystoires” and in the same hidden place he also 
found the waste of the monastery library—sheets 
of parchment and vellum; old bindings, a tempt¬ 
ing mass of material. About this time, the need 
for money becoming acute, he removed this mass 
to the little roof-room and began his preparation 
for a second forgery. 

“Undoubtedly he had expected Sir Piers to 
question his first production, perhaps even to de¬ 
tect it and if that had.happened he had prepared 



418 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


a defence. Nothing of the sort threatened; Sir 
Piers was carried off his feet, and Charles saw 
that if the circumstances were romantic and dis¬ 
arming, a collector’s judgment was often in abey¬ 
ance. Therefore he built upon this weakness and 
so unconsciously followed the method of another 
great forger, Constantine Simonides. 

“Charles was a master-craftsman; a great art¬ 
ist. He worked always on ancient materials, if 
possible on a manuscript already begun—one 
having existing text or traces of painting. Once 
started, like all real painters, he expressed him¬ 
self—toiling as no monk ever toiled, till his poor 
eyes were inflamed; but loving every instant of 
his labor. He walked at ease in the joy of his craft: 
I do not think he ever thought of it as moral obli¬ 
quity. He prepared a studio in Southern France, 
where he carried his work to be completed and 
which he used for the first time the year after 
the discovery of the Treyze Hystoires. The vol¬ 
ume thus produced sold in Paris that autumn 
with two inferior but genuine examples, for a 
very large sum, and from that day, Charles was 
committed; his own tastes had become exceed¬ 
ingly luxurious; and there was always Shank. 

“Naturally, Sir Piers was thinking of mar¬ 
riage—of which Charles approved. Miss Vig- 
noles was well dowered, and if a little spoiled 
yet seemed in every way suitable as mistress for 
Shank. You know that this marriage ended in 
tragedy. I think his failure to win Lady Monk- 
ton’s liking was a great shock to Charles. Up to 
that time, his charm had never failed him: his 


THE LAST ILLUMINATION 


419 


influence over Sir Piers deepened with every 
year; how could he have expected this girl should 
regard him with such jealous hostility?” 

As she approached that past time, Lady Monk- 
ton faltered. The men who listened to her nar¬ 
rative sat as still as a stone. She continued: 

“1 speak of things long past, of sorrow and of 

wrong; I tell of my own part in them.I had 

come from France to Shank, at Charles’s wish, to 
act as secretary. Charles’s wish was to me al¬ 
ways everything in the world. When I say that, 
it is enough, is it not ? You will not expect me to 
say more.? 

“I came and I found a strange state of things 
.the little Lady Monkton wild with jeal¬ 
ousy of her husband’s friend.... and oh, Charles 
was a bad enemy! She hated Shank as well: 
she would do nothing for Shank: she refused to 
aid with money and when an heir was expected— 
she did not hesitate to say that she was going to 
teach him to regard Shank as a burden—an in¬ 
cubus. I knew by the way Charles looked at 
her when she said that, it was duel to the death 

between them.I was often sorry for her. 

Charles was clever—oh he was so very clever, 
with his devilish deference to Piers and his de¬ 
votion, always shining in contrast to her indif¬ 
ference ! And I ? I did everything that Charles 
wished me to do—just as I am doing it now. 

“It was easy to gain an influence over Sir 
Piers’ mind, and I came to see things as Charles 
saw them—so the time came, and when Sir Piers 
asked me, I married him. I, too, have come to 







420 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


love Shank and to serve Shank as he and Charles 
did. Shank was like a beautiful witch that held 
us all enchanted. I worked hard for Shank and 
I don’t think Sir Piers was unhappy. I was un¬ 
happy, but I did what Charles wished—and shut 
my eyes to all else. It was good to be blind. 

“Then Piers died and Charles faced a terrible 
future. The thought of Lycett Monkton appalled 
him. When he saw mention of your father’s sale, 
Dick, he was reminded of the Virgil—an early 
forgery, and so he bought it back. At the same 
time he heard about your physical inheritance of 
the Monkton traits and wrote you. At the first, 
I am sure he had no set plan, he stood ready to 
turn the affair into the kindly visit it seemed 
to be. I saw you myself, Dick, that first night 
from behind the screen there. The little door 
opens into a cloister walk through the garden 

and Charles often made use of it.I saw you 

—and I too, was immensely struck. 

“Of course Charles knew more than he told 
about Mr. Richard Monkton. Not only did he 
know of your existence—but the young Amer¬ 
ican lady had showed you to him the day her 
husband had brought home to her the gift of a 
little, white fur rug lined with blue, to wrap her 
baby on the cold winter journey. Charles re¬ 
membered it all clearly, clearly—it seemed in his 
mind to make success quite certain. And what 
were letters to Charles? 

“But for all his cleverness and knowledge, 
Charles was utterly ignorant of the law. In this 
ignorance he supposed that these letters would in 



THE LAST ILLUMINATION 


421 


themselves be an all-sufficient proof: he found 
that he was mistaken. Forced to produce Coles 
to back up the letters, he found he must pro¬ 
duce the writer of them, and thus he delivered 
himself into the power of evil people. Danger 
deepened; the pair drained him of money; the 
woman McNeil made slips in her tale; events be¬ 
gan to lead Charles instead of Charles leading 
events and he grew oh! so uneasy! You too, Dic- 
con, began to worry him: he had supposed you 
would be quickly dazzled into acquiescence. But 
you never seemed thoroughly under his influence 
and somehow, Charles came to feel a great af¬ 
fection for you so that he hated to open the 
blackness of his deceits to you.Your friend¬ 

ship with Sir John here forced his hand once or 
twice, and hurt his pride; because he had counted 
on carrying Sir John with him. But chiefly, Dic- 
con, Charles wished to govern you, to lead you as 
he had done Piers, to be all in all, to be first with 

you.Jealousy, I think was half the cause of 

his anger.and jealousy, as well as fear, 

caused him to consent to the wicked plans of 
Hays regarding Miss Lang: he knew she had 
discovered things: and Charles, alas! was in 
Hays’ power, as Hays had once been in his mas¬ 
ter’s. So he let Hays plot to discredit Miss 
Lang and when he found she had escaped from 
Hays—oh he was furious! He did not wish her 
harmed—Charles didn’t approve of that, but he 
did wish so to discredit her that her evidence 
would never touch him more—and you would 
believe him and turn toward him again. For 





422 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


Diccon, he was fond of you—surely, tonight 
shows it?” 

Her imploring voice was horrible to Dick, he 
covered his eyes. To see her stand there, with her 
arms about that still figure, to hear her poignant 

and tragic effort to excuse to defend him.! 

To see her courage as she went steadily on—! 

“Yes; he was fond of you: but he never for an 
instant cared how much you might suffer from 
his acts; he had never cared for my suffering— 
and I have suffered since I was nineteen and left 
my home because he wished it. No: there was 
only one thing Charles loved more than himself, 

and that was Shank.Shank Charles would 

never leave.on Shank he would keep his 

grip at whatever cost. If beauty can be evil, oh! 
that beauty was evil for Charles—,he sustained, 
he toiled for it, he worshipped it—he put his 
great, great talents to work for it and never 

thought to ask if his acts were good or bad. 

Diccon, for some time past I have felt that on the 
subject of Shank, Charles had ceased to be en¬ 
tirely sane. 

“I come now to things which I do not know, 
which I can only guess. Charles must have shot 
the spy in the crypt. He had run over from his 
hiding-place in France for certain materials 
needed in his work. Long afterwards I learned 
he was in Shank that night. Hays knew. Yes: 
Hays was arrested this afternoon. Of course he 
must have told.” 

Some movement of horror in the listening 
group caused her to put her hand to her throat. 







THE LAST ILLUMINATION 


423 


Then once more she laid it caressingly on the 
dead shoulder, and her voice, with its strange, 
fluting lisp, went on; 

“I repeat—he could not have been himself 
these last weeks. He seemed amazingly reckless. 
The Canticles was, he exulted, his finest achieve¬ 
ment. He had begun the work long ago, mean¬ 
ing to do the eight paintings, but the immediate 
pressure made it necessary to put the manuscript 
on sale at once. I implored him to wait, to con¬ 
sider his danger, he would not listen. He was so 
proud of his work that I honestly think he forgot 
it was the antiquity which counted; he seemed to 
forget it was a forgery. Then he did other mad 

things.he painted my portrait in one of the 

miniatures and his memory must have played 
him a fatal trick about the background. Evident¬ 
ly, he repeated himself, a thing he had never done 
before. Yet he was obstinate; he was confident; 
not once he thought of giving up the sale. And 
then today, everything crashed. He could not 
live after that.” 

She ceased. She looked piteously from one of 
them to the other; and then she turned to Dick, 
pulling herself together with a small, final gesture 
of the hands. “I think, Richard, I have told you 
all that Charles wished.” 

Dick was quite unable to answer. Somehow or 
other Sir John got him out of the room, leaving 
the Inspector with Lady Monkton. What fol¬ 
lowed they neither knew nor sought to know. 

Dick found himself with the barrister walking 
rapidly up St. James’s. The air was sweet and 




424 THE GREAT HOUSE IN THE PARK 


wholesome to them for they had been in torment. 
Light fog was gathering over Piccadilly, was 
it that or his tears, that turned the lamps into 
hazy nebulae? He knew nothing until Sir John 
paused, bought a paper and silently thrust it into 
his companion's hand. There was a headline 
saying: “Fatal outcome of the Maitland-Monk- 
ton Expedition—total loss of life." Below was 
a despatch from Australia stating that when the 
relief ship Penguin had come on the explorers' 
camp, it was to find their dead bodies, including 
that of the leader and Sir Lycett Monkton. When 
Dick stupefied over the news, raised his head, he 
was conscious of Sir John's sonorous voice giv¬ 
ing solemn utterance to a Latin quotation. 

In life there may be a consolation that we 
stand for what we are. When the scandal of the 
Ventris forgeries and the Monkton claimant died 
away—and they made a great noise—Dick did 
not find himself without friends. Through the 
influence of Sir John Flippin he obtained work 
in an important Anglo-American firm, where he 
does so well that he plans soon to return, married, 
to his own country. The home he looks for is 
to stand in the most suave of valleys, where corn¬ 
fields, in the warm wind, toss their leaves in a 
continual emerald glitter. It will be just a plain 
Pennsylvania colonial house with broad porches 
and big hearths, nor are there likely to be any 
objects of art in it for a long time. He talks and 
thinks of his future home often and very happily; 
but there come moments when he falls silent, 
dreaming of another house, vast and old and 


THE LAST ILLUMINATION 


425 


splendid, with towers and gilded vanes, with 
courts and fountains, with the silver and carv¬ 
ings, porcelains and books and paintings of a 
thousand years. This rises before him and he 
thinks of it—not with regret but with dread-—as 
an embodied symbol of that fatal and alluring 
beauty for whose sake, since the days of Helen, 
men have imperilled their souls. 







it 




■ J 


•• 

% 















< V ; fl' j . >’ : ■ •on >rr 











O' • . ; . - : . 

i "t: w ' l ' ' 

•> ; .o>;r> : 


* 






* * 






























































































































































































































H Xp j,- 

1 A 

o 


^ * r\0 

* .0 N 0 ■ ’ 

X • QV ., * 0 


<*■ 

O- *- , 

. - „ 

\ v 'f ^ CV 


a, ' v-v> \\‘ 

% z ^ ^ 



» « ^ 


^ > 

> %: > a o, ** / 

0 TT ,/v 1 « * ^ A X c, 0 * c * *^- 

A x i *p .A 

" X ^ /r79 ^ P * A X 'v^lL® z ^ 

^ ^ ^ v r - © o x 


X , s »» .*ife'-- % ,<*■ :'iM£\ \-s 

, A x 


^ % 


A 


.v A 



<r 


°* ^ A \ X t 0 N-C *V '* **>" ^ A-‘ fi < ~<p 

* v 18 % % - . °° *gm$» % a 

^ ^ o ^ a • * mmSk - |y 






x0 



" ’ * 0 & 0 , •% \> SLfJ*, > A 0^ * - _ 

A^' r <? ft *. 'P, v, * * ->. ^ ^ 

<A 
V 



<k 





o ■'V aV 


/. 


v 5 

,V x 




0 N c ^r b //j ** s " ^ ,UI ( A> ' c 0 * C 

■>XA * Mm ?*. ^ v* 

\° <2* 
o \ ^ 

^ O) ^ ^ r V - K 


A* 



o 



A 


H ^#* 


^ a z li 




x v '% .. ^ 

f in" \^' s v ^ ; o n o 0 0 

V 1 N s , v /y s ^ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 

Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
<J lr> ,cV - " V Treatment Date: 




oV 







'?> V 


z\V 

# ^ 

^ -i • ' A 

V. I 8 ^ ' 0 „ X ^ ^ o M c q 

1 ^ .1*^° ■»• 

, •? ^ 

^ \F ° 

■ft 



\° X. 


5^ > 




JUL 1996 

BBKftEEPER 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC. 
111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412) 779-2111 







,0 


J 




9 I "V 


CL. * 

v ” -v 

fc* “■ %> # 

</' A'V 




v v 


,-o, ^ 81 

*. *«&,*** : 


0 N 0 ^ 

A 0‘ ^ 

V' - £C 3 S^ l ^ v • 

//% l yws r\\ 

\.o^V v 1 **■**%' u * K \^ V' 4 * sS ./^ v 1 “ 

0 v S ^ /y7^ *1 ^ 4 ^ ^ O f ‘ • v ^ 

* ^ ^ cf5\' \V*L ^ 

-< ^ v> »; ^o o' , 

« < . *> 






>\ * ■ - * V 4 "'’ 0 *V*»,% * " ' ’ v>\ ,SN ” ’/ 

- *** * %,> ' 

... „. » • .#' 1 
'L ■* *& 

J 0 * K* A ■ w % 
A X , 0 N c .. *? 





0 * V. 



o V -r* 

^ 0° , 

; *b o^ : 

<r i «■ 

- „V ^ 

rjs y 

' 4 v a i -\ ~ \ v . 

^ * o f ^ 

^ c ^. . v ^ 

"' % ^ 

</> <\ v 




x°°^ 




f " 1 ° 'yt> *: ,>/ * ^>°° 

k* 

Ar 




^ s n * l ■* A 

'<*. j> c» N c » . -o 

u ^ 4 

* -V *" \ 

^ v 6 ° *-• 

» * 


o 


x° ^ 

* 



. . .._ ,* ,y + 

O, «s ^6 < 

o. v * * - 

^ ^ v ^ 

o 0 X 

. , *v» *»* ’ < 

0 ^ a c* v . ^ ^ -x c 

^ * *P x (f&dwfeiK. y -v a v> 

r \V ^ fwPI * s^*- <1- 

y > 

A ^ 

* oV ^ ’ J v ' ,.r V ;>> N u A 

<v ^ V tV cP 1 *4 

** 1 rvTT *'■ * * « "<p A X 

o° ,vV^L a- v^ * 

N ^/r7//^? ^ -gpv Jl\ <s 

- *t. V s 

^ o x«5 o<. 

5 > 

" aO 






o 0 » 

^ A. V,.. 

/■, -■» ,v *' >n v.., *%' * 

- - — ' ^ ^ ^ 

- 

' ^ 




* A 

Q^’ «> ' ' * A ' 0 “ ' C " N C «/*b 

a\ 

K ®« 

\° C Lr. 

' > 


>5 ^ '.fir 














































































